5 


^OF-CALIFORfc, 
5-  a  >^ 


^OJI1V3-JOV 
^OFCAIIFO/?^ 


t^WE  UNIVER5*//v 


^TJMNV-SO^ 


^EUNIVER%  ^lOSANGELfj^ 


^•LIBRARY^ 


^•LIBRARYQc 
£  1  \r~  ^ 


\WEUNIVER%      ^lOSANCELfx,        ^0FCALIF(%,  ^ 

1  -n      en  r      >'    1 »  Li.         cc  l\   /  ^  A  as 


^OFCALIFOfy^ 


%AnvHain^v 


^UIBRARYflA 

LU 

^OFCAIIFO/?^ 


^•IIBRARY^ 
§  1  ir-'  i£ 


^EUNIVERy/A 


^lOSANGElfj^ 


^AHViiaiH^ 


.<.0KAIIF(%, 


<ril30NYS01^  "^/fltfAINMt^ 
AWEUNIVER^  ^lOSANGElfj^ 


%!1]AIN0-3\\V^ 


^EWIVER^ 


^lOSANGElfr.*  ^HIBRARY^ 


^HIBRARYQ^ 


Ml  K&f  Mi  !ML 


Digitized  by 

the  Internet 

Archive 

in  2014 

https://archive.org/details/saintmartinssummrafa 


Speeding  at  a  Gallop  Down  the  White  Road  That  Led  to 
the  River  (page  76) 


Sty*  HiHtnrual  Stomanraa  of  3&afa?l  &ahatmt 


SAINT  MARTIN'S 
SUMMER 


McKINLAY,  STONE  &  MACKENZIE 
NEW  YORK 


PRINTED  IN  THE  U.S.A. 


TO 


HAROLD  LEE 


IN  SOME  EARNEST 
OF  MY  REGARD  FOR  HIS  ATTAINMENTS 
OF  MY  GRATITUDE  FOR  HIS  ENCOURAGEMENT 
AND  OF  MY  AFFECTION  FOR  HIMSELF 
I  INSCRIBE 
THIS  TRAGI-COMEDY 


CONTENTS 

I.  The  Seneschal  of  Dauphiny  3 

II.  Monsieur  de  Garnache  19 

III.  The  Dowager's  Compliance  35 

IV.  The  Chateau  de  Condillac  45 
V.  Monsieur  de  Garnache  Loses  his  Temper  58 

VI.  Monsieur  de  Garnache  Keeps  his  Temper  80 

VII.  The  Opening  of  the  Trap  94 

VIII.  The  Closing  of  the  Trap  112 

IX.  The  Seneschal's  Advice  123 

X.  The  Recruit  132 

XI.  Valerie's  Gaoler  142 

XII.  A  Matter  of  Conscience  153 

XIII.  The  Courier  168 

XIV.  Florimond's  Letter  180 
XV.  The  Conference  192 

XVI.  The  Unexpected  213 

XVII.  How  Monsieur  de  Garnache  left  Con- 
dillac 227 

XVIII.  In  the  Moat  248 

XIX.  Through  the  Night  261 


vHi  CONTENTS 

XX.  Florimond  de  Condillac  269 

XXI.  The  Ghost  in  the  Cupboard  280 
XXII.  The  Offices  of  Mother  Church  291 

XXIII.  The  Judgment  of  Garnache  304 

XXIV.  Saint  Martin's  Eve  326 


SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


SAINT  MARTIN'S 
SUMMER 


CHAPTER  I 
THE  SENESCHAL  OF  DAUPHINY 

MY  Lord  of  Tressan,  His  Majesty's  Seneschal  of 
Dauphiny,  sat  at  his  ease,  his  purple  doublet 
all  undone,  to  yield  greater  freedom  to  his  vast  bulk,  a 
yellow  silken  undergarment  visible  through  the  gap, 
as  is  visible  the  flesh  of  some  fruit  that,  swollen  with 
over-ripeness,  has  burst  its  skin. 

His  wig  —  imposed  upon  him  by  necessity,  not 
fashion  —  lay  on  the  table  amid  a  confusion  of  dusty 
papers,  and  on  his  little  fat  nose,  round  and  red  as 
a  cherry  at  its  end,  rested  the  bridge  of  his  horn- 
rimmed spectacles.  His  bald  head  —  so  bald  and 
shining  that  it  conveyed  an  unpleasant  sense  of  na- 
kedness, suggesting  that  its  uncovering  had  been  an 
act  of  indelicacy  on  the  owner's  part  —  rested  on  the 
back  of  his  great  chair,  and  hid  from  sight  the  gaudy 
escutcheon  wrought  upon  the  crimson  leather.  His 
eyes  were  closed,  his  mouth  open,  and  whether  from 
that  mouth  or  from  his  nose  —  or,  perhaps,  conflict- 
ing for  issue  between  both  —  there  came  a  snorting, 
rumbling  sound  to  proclaim  that  my  Lord  the  Sen- 
eschal was  hard  at  work  upon  the  King's  business. 


SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


Yonder,  at  a  meaner  table,  in  an  angle  between  two 
windows,  a  pale-faced  threadbare  secretary  was  per- 
forming for  a  yearly  pittance  the  duties  for  which 
my  Lord  the  Seneschal  was  rewarded  by  emoluments 
disproportionately  large. 

The  air  of  that  vast  apartment  was  disturbed  by 
the  sounds  of  Monsieur  de  Tressan's  slumbers,  the 
scratch  and  splutter  of  the  secretary's  pen,  and  the 
occasional  hiss  and  crackle  of  the  logs  that  burned 
in  the  great,  cavern-like  fireplace.  Suddenly  to  these 
another  sound  was  added.  With  a  rasp  and  rattle 
the  heavy  curtains  of  blue  velvet  flecked  with  silver 
fleurs-de-lys  were  swept  from  the  doorway,  and  the 
master  of  Monsieur  de  Tressan's  household,  in  a  well- 
filled  suit  of  black  relieved  by  his  heavy  chain  of  office, 
stepped  pompously  forward. 

The  secretary  dropped  his  pen,  and  shot  a  fright- 
ened glance  at  his  slumbering  master;  then  raised  his 
hands  above  his  head,  and  shook  them  wildly  at  the 
head-lackey. 

"Sh!"  he  whispered  tragically.  "Doucement,  Mon- 
sieur Anselme." 

Anselme  paused.  He  appreciated  the  gravity  of  the 
situation.  His  bearing  lost  some  of  its  dignity;  his 
face  underwent  a  change.  Then  with  a  recovery  of 
some  part  of  his  erstwhile  resolution : 

"Nevertheless,  he  must  be  awakened,"  he  an- 
nounced, but  in  an  undertone,  as  if  afraid  to  do  the 
thing  he  said  must  needs  be  done. 

The  horror  in  the  secretary's  eyes  increased,  but 
Anselme's  reflected  none  of  it.  It  was  a  grave  thing, 
he  knew  by  former  experience,  to  arouse  His  Maj- 
esty's Seneschal  of  Dauphiny  from  his  after-dinner 


THE  SENESCHAL  OF  DAUPHINY  5 


nap;  but  it  was  an  almost  graver  thing  to  fail  in  obe- 
dience to  that  black-eyed  woman  below  who  was 
demanding  an  audience. 

Anselme  realized  that  he  was  between  the  sword 
and  the  wall.  He  was,  however,  a  man  of  a  deliberate 
habit  that  was  begotten  of  inherent  indolence  and 
nurtured  among  the  good  things  that  fell  to  his  share 
as  master  of  the  Tressan  household.  Thoughtfully  he 
caressed  his  tuft  of  red  beard,  puffed  out  his  cheeks, 
and  raised  his  eyes  to  the  ceiling  in  appeal  or  denunci- 
ation to  the  heaven  which  he  believed  was  somewhere 
beyond  it. 

"Nevertheless,  he  must  be  awakened,"  he  re- 
peated. 

And  then  Fate  came  to  his  assistance.  Somewhere 
m  the  house  a  door  banged  like  a  cannon-shot.  Per- 
spiration broke  upon  the  secretary's  brow.  He  sank 
limply  back  in  his  chair,  giving  himself  up  for  lost. 
Anselme  started  and  bit  the  knuckle  of  his  forefinger 
in  a  manner  suggesting  an  inarticulate  imprecation. 

My  Lord  the  Seneschal  moved.  The  noise  of  his 
slumbers  culminated  in  a  sudden,  choking  grunt,  and 
abruptly  ceased.  His  eyelids  rolled  slowly  back,  like 
an  owl's,  revealing  pale  blue  eyes,  which  fixed  them- 
selves first  upon  the  ceiling,  then  upon  Anselme.  In- 
stantly he  sat  up,  puffing  and  scowling,  his  hands 
shuffling  his  papers. 

"A  thousand  devils!  Anselme,  why  am  I  inter- 
rupted?" he  grumbled  querulously,  still  half-asleep. 
"What  the  plague  do  you  want?  Have  you  no 
thought  for  the  King's  affairs?  Babylas"  —  this  to 
his  secretary  —  "did  I  not  tell  you  that  I  had  much 
to  do;  that  I  must  not  be  disturbed?" 


6  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


It  was  the  great  vanity  of  the  life  of  this  man,  who 
did  nothing,  to  appear  the  busiest  fellow  in  all  France, 
and  no  audience  —  not  even  that  of  his  own  lackeys 
—  was  too  mean  for  him  to  take  the  stage  to  in  that 
predilect  role. 

"Monsieur  le  Comte,"  said  Anselme,  in  tones  of 
abject  self-effacement, "  I  had  never  dared  intrude  had 
the  matter  been  of  less  urgency.  But  Madame  the 
Dowager  of  Condillac  is  below.  She  begs  to  see  Your 
Excellency  instantly." 

At  once  there  was  a  change.  Tressan  became  wide- 
awake upon  the  instant.  His  first  act  was  to  pass  one 
hand  over  the  wax-like  surface  of  his  bald  head, 
whilst  his  other  snatched  at  his  wig.  Then  he  heaved 
himself  ponderously  out  of  his  great  chair.  He  donned 
his  wig,  awry  in  his  haste,  and  lurched  forward 
towards  Anselme,  his  fat  fingers  straining  at  his  open 
doublet  and  drawing  it  together. 

"Madame  la  Douairiere  here?"  he  cried.  "Make 
fast  these  buttons,  rascal!  Quick!  Am  I  to  receive  a 
lady  thus?  Am  I  —  ?  Babylas,"  he  snapped,  inter- 
rupting himself  and  turning  aside  even  as  Anselme 
put  forth  hands  to  do  his  bidding.  "A  mirror,  from 
my  closet!  Dispatch!" 

The  secretary  was  gone  in  a  flash,  and  in  a  flash 
returned,  even  as  Anselme  completed  his  master's 
toilet.  But  clearly  Monsieur  de  Tressan  had  awak- 
ened in  a  peevish  humour,  for  no  sooner  were  the 
buttons  of  his  doublet  secured  than  with  his  own 
fingers  he  tore  them  loose  again,  cursing  his  major- 
domo  the  while  with  vigour. 

"You  dog,  Anselme,  have  you  no  sense  of  fitness, 
no  discrimination  ?  Am  I  to  appear  in  this  garment  of 


THE  SENESCHAL  OF  DAUPHINY  7 


the  mode  of  a  half-century  ago  before  Madame  la 
Marquise?  Take  it  off;  take  it  off,  man!  Get  me  the 
coat  that  came  last  month  from  Paris  —  the  yellow 
one  with  the  hanging  sleeves  and  the  gold  buttons, 
and  a  sash  —  the  crimson  sash  I  had  from  Taille- 
mant.  Can  you  move  no  quicker,  animal?  Are  you 
still  here?" 

Anselme,  thus  enjoined,  lent  an  unwonted  alacrity 
•  to  his  movements,  waddling  grotesquely  like  a  hasten- 
ing water-fowl.  Between  him  and  the  secretary  they 
dressed  my  Lord  the  Seneschal,  and  decked  him  out 
till  he  was  fit  to  compare  with  a  bird  of  paradise  for 
gorgeousness  of  colouring  if  not  for  harmony  of  hues 
and  elegance  of  outline. 

Babylas  held  the  mirror,  and  Anselme  adjusted  the 
Seneschal's  wig,  whilst  Tressan  himself  twisted  his 
black  mustachios  —  how  they  kept  their  colour  was 
a  mystery  to  his  acquaintance  —  and  combed  the 
tuft  of  beard  that  sprouted  from  one  of  his  several 
chins. 

He  took  a  last  look  at  his  reflection,  rehearsed  a 
smile,  and  bade  Anselme  introduce  his  visitor.  He  de- 
sired his  secretary  to  go  to  the  devil,  but,  thinking 
better  of  it,  he  recalled  him  as  he  reached  the  door. 
His  cherished  vanity  craved  expression. 

"Wait!"  said  he.  "There  is  a  letter  must  be  writ- 
ten. The  King's  business  may  not  suffer  postpone- 
ment—  not  for  all  the  dowagers  in  France.  Sit 
down." 

Babylas  obeyed  him.  Tressan  stood  with  his  back 
to  the  open  door.  His  ears,  strained  to  listen,  had 
caught  the  swish  of  a  woman's  gown.  He  cleared  his 
throat,  and  began  to  dictate: 


8  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


"To  Her  Majesty  the  Queen-Regent — "  He 
paused,  and  stood  with  knitted  brows,  deep  in 
thought.  Then  he  ponderously  repeated  —  "To  Her 
Majesty  the  Queen-Regent  —  Have  you  got  that?" 

"Yes,  Monsieur  le  Comte.  'To  Her  Majesty  the 
Queen-Regent.'" 

There  was  a  step,  and  a  throat-clearing  cough  be- 
hind him. 

"Monsieur  de  Tressan,"  said  a  woman's  voice,  a 
rich,  melodious  voice,  if  haughty  and  arrogant  of 
intonation. 

On  the  instant  he  turned,  advanced  a  step,  and 
bowed. 

"Your  humblest  servant,  madame,"  said  he,  his 
hand  upon  his  heart.  "This  is  an  honour  which  — " 

"Which  necessity  thrusts  upon  you,"  she  broke  in 
imperiously.  "Dismiss  that  fellow." 

The  secretary,  pale  and  shy,  had  risen.  His  eyes 
dilated  at  the  woman's  speech.  He  looked  for  a  catas- 
trophe as  the  natural  result  of  her  taking  such  a  tone 
with  this  man  who  was  the  terror  of  his  household  and 
of  all  Grenoble.  Instead,  the  Lord  Seneschal's  meek- 
ness left  him  breathless  with  surprise. 

"He  is  my  secretary,  madame.  We  were  at  work  as 
you  came.  I  was  on  the  point  of  inditing  a  letter  to 
Her  Majesty.  The  office  of  Seneschal  in  a  province 
such  as  Dauphiny  is  —  helas!  —  no  sinecure."  He 
sighed  like  one  whose  brain  is  weary.  "It  leaves  a 
man  little  time  even  to  eat  or  sleep." 

"You  will  be  needing  a  holiday,  then,"  said  she, 
with  cool  insolence.  "Take  one  for  once,  and  let  the 
King's  business  give  place  for  half  an  hour  to  mine." 

The  secretary's  horror  grew  by  leaps  and  bounds. 


THE  SENESCHAL  OF  DAUPHINY 


Surely  the  storm  would  burst  at  last  about  this  auda- 
cious woman's  head.  But  the  Lord  Seneschal  —  usu- 
ally so  fiery  and  tempestuous  —  did  no  more  than 
make  her  another  of  his  absurd  bows. 

"You  anticipate,  madame,  the  very  words  I  was 
about  to  utter.  Babylas,  vanish!"  And  he  waved 
the  scribbler  doorwards  with  a  contemptuous  hand. 
"Take  your  papers  with  you  —  into  my  closet  there. 
We  will  resume  that  letter  to  Her  Majesty  when 
madame  shall  have  left  me." 

The  secretary  gathered  up  his  papers,  his  quills, 
and  his  ink-horn,  and  went  his  way,  accounting  the 
end  of  the  world  at  hand. 

When  the  door  had  closed  upon  him,  the  Seneschal, 
with  another  bow  and  a  simper,  placed  a  chair  at  his 
visitor's  disposal.  She  looked  at  the  chair,  then 
looked  at  the  man  much  as  she  had  looked  at  the 
chair,  and  turning  her  back  contemptuously  on  both, 
she  sauntered  towards  the  fireplace.  She  stood  before 
the  blaze,  with  her  whip  tucked  under  her  arm,  draw- 
ing off  her  stout  riding-gloves.  She  was  a  tall,  splen- 
didly proportioned  woman,  of  a  superb  beauty  of 
countenance,  for  all  that  she  was  well  past  the  spring 
of  life. 

In  the  waning  light  of  that  October  afternoon  none 
would  have  guessed  her  age  to  be  so  much  as  thirty, 
though  in  the  sunlight  you  might  have  set  it  at  a  little 
more.  But  in  no  light  at  all  would  you  have  guessed 
the  truth,  that  her  next  would  be  her  forty-second 
birthday.  Her  face  was  pale,  of  an  ivory  pallor  that 
gleamed  in  sharp  contrast  with  the  ebony  of  her  lus- 
trous hair.  Under  the  long  lashes  of  low  lids  a  pair  of 
eyes  black  and  insolent  set  off  the  haughty  lines  of  her 


io  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


scarlet  lips.  Her  nose  was  thin  and  straight,  her  neck 
an  ivory  pillar  splendidly  upright  upon  her  handsome 
shoulders. 

She  was  dressed  for  riding,  in  a  gown  of  sapphire 
velvet,  handsomely  laced  in  gold  across  the  stom- 
acher, and  surmounted  at  the  neck,  where  it  was  cut 
low  and  square,  by  the  starched  band  of  fine  linen 
which  in  France  was  already  replacing  the  more  elab- 
orate ruff.  On  her  head,  over  a  linen  coif,  she  wore  a 
tall-crowned  grey  beaver,  swathed  with  a  scarf  of  blue 
and  gold. 

Standing  by  the  hearth,  one  foot  on  the  stone  kerb, 
one  elbow  leaning  lightly  on  the  overmantel,  she  pro- 
ceeded leisurely  to  remove  her  gloves. 

The  Seneschal  observed  her  with  eyes  that  held  an 
odd  mixture  of  furtiveness  and  admiration,  his  fingers 
—  plump,  indolent-looking  stumps  —  plucking  at  his 
beard. 

"Did  you  but  know,  Marquise,  with  what  joy, 
with  what  a  — " 

"I  will  imagine  it,  whatever  it  may  be,"  she  broke 
in,  with  that  brusque  arrogance  that  marked  her 
bearing.  "The  time  for  flowers  of  rhetoric  is  not  now. 
There  is  trouble  coming,  man;  trouble,  dire  trouble." 

Up  went  the  Seneschal's  brows;  his  eyes  grew 
wider. 

"Trouble?"  quoth  he.  And,  having  opened  his 
mouth  to  give  exit  to  that  single  word,  open  he' 
left  it. 

She  laughed  lazily,  her  lip  curling,  her  face  twisting 
oddly,  and  mechanically  she  began  to  draw  on  again 
the  glove  she  had  drawn  off. 

"  By  your  face  I  see  how  well  you  understand  me," 


THE  SENESCHAL  OF  DAUPHINY 


ii 


she  sneered.  "The  trouble  concerns  Mademoiselle  de 
La  Vauvraye." 

"From  Paris  —  does  it  come  from  Court?"  His 
voice  was  sunk. 

She  nodded.  "You  are  a  miracle  of  intuition  to- 
day, Tressan." 

He  thrust  his  tiny  tuft  of  beard  between  his  teeth 
—  a  trick  he  had  when  perplexed  or  thoughtful. 
"A — h!"  he  exclaimed  at  last,  and  it  sounded 
like  an  indrawn  breath  of  apprehension.  "Tell  me 
more." 

"What  more  is  there  to  tell ?  You  have  the  epitome 
of  the  story." 

"  But  what  is  the  nature  of  the  trouble  ?  What  form 
does  it  take,  and  by  whom  are  you  advised  of  it?" 

"A  friend  in  Paris  sent  me  word,  and  his  messenger 
did  his  work  well,  else  had  Monsieur  de  Garnache 
been  here  before  him,  and  I  had  not  so  much  as  had 
the  mercy  of  this  forewarning." 

"Garnache?"  quoth  the  Count.  "Who  is  Gar- 
nache?" 

"The  emissary  of  the  Queen-Regent.  He  has  been 
dispatched  hither  by  her  to  see  that  Mademoiselle  de 
La  Vauvraye  has  justice  and  enlargement." 

Tressan  fell  suddenly  to  groaning  and  wringing  his 
hands  —  a  pathetic  figure  had  it  been  less  absurd. 

"I  warned  you,  madame!  I  warned  you  how  it 
would  end,"  he  cried.  "I  told  you  — " 

"Oh,  I  remember  the  things  you  told  me,"  she  cut 
in,  scorn  in  her  voice.  "You  may  spare  yourself  their 
repetition.  What  isTdone  is  done,  and  I'll  not  —  I 
would  not  —  have  it  undone.  Queen-Regent  or  no 
Queen-Regent,  I  am  mistress  at  Condillac;  my  word 


12  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


is  the  only  law  we  know,  and  I  intend  that  so  it  shall 
continue." 

Tressan  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  This  unreason- 
ing, feminine  obstinacy  so  wrought  upon  him  that  he 
permitted  himself  a  smile  and  a  lapse  into  irony  and 
banter. 

"  Parfaitement"  said  he,  spreading  his  hands,  and 
bowing.  "Why  speak  of  trouble,  then?" 

She  beat  her  whip  impatiently  against  her  gown, 
her  eyes  staring  into  the  fire.  "Because,  my  attitude 
being  such  as  it  is,  trouble  will  there  be." 

The  Seneschal  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  moved  a 
step  towards  her.  He  was  cast  down  to  think  that  he 
might  have  spared  himself  the  trouble  of  donning  his 
beautiful  yellow  doublet  from  Paris.  She  had  eyes  for 
no  finery  that  afternoon.  He  was  cast  down,  too,  to 
think  how  things  might  go  with  him  when  this  trouble 
came.  It  entered  his  thoughts  that  he  had  lain  long 
on  a  bed  of  roses  in  this  pleasant  corner  of  Dauphiny, 
and  he  was  smitten  now  with  fear  lest  of  the  roses  he 
should  find  nothing  remaining  but  the  thorns. 

"How  came  the  Queen-Regent  to  hear  of — of 
mademoiselle's  —  ah  —  situation?"  he  inquired. 

The  Marquise  swung  round  upon  him  in  a  passion. 

"The  girl  found  a  dog  of  a  traitor  to  bear  a  letter  for 
her.  That  is  enough.  If  ever  chance  or  fate  should 
bring  him  my  way,  by  God!  he  shall  hang  without 
shrift." 

Then  she  put  her  anger  from  her;  put  from  her,  too, 
the  insolence  and  scorn  with  which  so  lavishly  she  had 
addressed  him  hitherto.  Instead  she  assumed  a  sup- 
pliant air,  her  beautiful  eyes  meltingly  set  upon  his 
face. 


THE  SENESCHAL  OF  DAUPHINY 


"Tressan,"  said  she  in  her  altered  voice,  "I  am 
beset  by  enemies.  But  you  will  not  forsake  me  ?  You 
will  stand  by  me  to  the  end  —  will  you  not,  my 
friend?  I  can  count  upon  you,  at  least?" 

"In  all  things,  madame,"  he  answered,  under  the 
spell  of  her  gaze.  "What  force  does  this  man  Gar- 
nache  bring  with  him?  Have  you  ascertained?" 

"He  brings  none,"  she  answered,  triumph  in  her 
glance. 

"None?"  he  echoed,  horror  in  his.  "None?  Then 
—  then — " 

He  tossed  his  arms  to  heaven,  and  stood  a  limp  and 
stricken  thing.  She  leaned  forward,  and  regarded  him 
in  surprise. 

"Diable!  What  ails  you?"  she  snapped.  "Could  I 
have  given  you  better  news?" 

"  If  you  could  have  given  me  worse,  I  cannot  think 
what  it  might  have  been,"  he  groaned.  Then,  as  if 
smitten  by  a  sudden  notion  that  flashed  a  gleam  of 
hope  into  this  terrifying  darkness  that  was  settling 
down  upon  him,  he  suddenly  looked  up.  "You  mean 
to  resist  him?"  he  inquired. 

She  stared  at  him  a  second,  then  laughed,  a  thought 
unpleasantly. 

"Pish!  But  you  are  mad,"  she  scorned  him.  "Do 
you  need  ask  if  I  intend  to  resist  —  I,  with  the  strong- 
est castle  in  Dauphiny?  By  God!  sir,  if  you  need  to 
hear  me  say  it,  hear  me  then  say  that  I  shall  resist 
him  and  as  many  as  the  Queen  may  send  after  him, 
for  as  long  as  one  stone  of  Condillac  shall  stand  upon 
another." 

The  Seneschal  blew  out  his  lips,  and  fell  once  more 
to  the  chewing  of  his  beard. 


i4  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


"What  did  you  mean  when  you  said  I  could  have 
given  you  no  worse  news  than  that  of  his  coming 
alone?"  she  questioned  suddenly. 

"Madame,"  said  he,  "if  this  man  comes  without 
force,  and  you  resist  the  orders  of  which  he  is  the 
bearer,  what  think  you  will  betide?" 

"He  will  appeal  to  you  for  the  men  he  needs  that  he 
may  batter  down  my  walls,"  she  answered  calmly. 

He  looked  at  her  incredulously.  "You  realize  it?" 
he  ejaculated.  "You  realize  it?" 

"What  is  there  in  it  that  should  puzzle  a  babe?" 

Her  callousness  was  like  a  gust  of  wind  upon  the 
living  embers  of  his  fears.  It  blew  them  into  a  blaze 
of  wrath,  sudden  and  terrific  as  that  of  such  a  man  at 
bay  could  be.  He  advanced  upon  her  with  the  rolling 
gait  of  the  obese,  his  cheeks  purple,  his  arms  waving 
wildly,  his  dyed  mustachios  bristling. 

"And  what  of  me,  madame?"  he  spluttered. 
"What  of  me?  Am  I  to  be  ruined,  gaoled,  and 
hanged,  maybe,  for  refusing  him  men  ?  —  for  that  is 
what  is  in  your  mind.  Am  I  to  make  myself  an  out- 
law? Am  I,  who  have  been  Lord  Seneschal  of  Dau- 
phiny  these  fifteen  years,  to  end  my  days  in  degrada- 
tion in  the  cause  of  a  woman's  matrimonial  projects 
for  a  simpering  school-girl?  Seigneur  du  del!"  he 
roared,  "I  think  you  are  gone  mad  —  mad,  mad!  — 
over  this  affair.  You  would  not  think  it  too  much  to 
set  the  whole  province  in  flames  so  that  you  could 
have  your  way  with  this  wretched  child.  But,  Ven- 
tregris!  to  ruin  me  —  to  —  to  — " 

He  fell  silent  for  very  want  of  words;  just  gaped  and 
gasped,  and  then,  with  hands  folded  upon  his  paunch, 
he  set  himself  to  pace  the  chamber. 


THE  SENESCHAL  OF  DAUPHINY  15 


Madame  de  Condillac  stood  watching  him,  her  face 
composed,  her  glance  cold.  She  was  like  some  stal- 
wart oak,  weathering  with  unshaken  front  a  hurri- 
cane. When  he  had  done,  she  moved  away  from  the 
fireplace,  and,  beating  her  side  gently  with  her  whip, 
she  stepped  to  the  door. 

"  Au  revoir,  Monsieur  de  Tressan,"  said  she,  mighty 
cool,  her  back  towards  him. 

At  that  he  halted  in  his  feverish  stride,  stood  still 
and  threw  up  his  head.  His  anger  went  out,  as  a 
candle  is  extinguished  by  a  puff  of  wind.  And  in  its 
place  a  new  fear  crept  into  his  heart. 

"Madame,  madame!"  he  cried.  "Wait!  Hear 
me." 

She  paused,  half-turned,  and  looked  at  him  over 
her  shoulder,  scorn  in  her  glance,  a  sneer  on  her  scar- 
let mouth,  insolence  in  every  line  of  her. 

"I  think,  monsieur,  that  I  have  heard  a  little  more 
than  enough,"  said  she.  "I  am  assured,  at  least,  that 
in  you  I  have  but  a  fair-weather  friend,  a  poor  lip- 
server." 

"Ah,  not  that,  madame,"  he  cried,  and  his  voice 
was  stricken.  "Say  not  that.  I  would  serve  you  as 
would  none  other  in  all  this  world  —  you  know  it, 
Marquise;  you  know  it." 

She  faced  about,  and  confronted  him,  her  smile  a 
trifle  broader,  as  if  amusement  were  now  blending 
with  her  scorn. 

"It  is  easy  to  protest.  Easy  to  say,  'I  will  die  for 
you,'  so  long  as  the  need  for  such  a  sacrifice  be  re- 
mote. But  let  me  do  no  more  than  ask  a  favour,  and 
it  is,  'What  of  my  good  name,  madame?  What  of 
my  seneschalship  ?  Am  I  to  be  gaoled  or  hanged  to 


16  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


pleasure  you?'  Faugh!"  she  ended,  with  a  toss  of 
her  splendid  head.  "The  world  is  peopled  with  your 
kind,  and  I  —  alas!  for  a  woman's  intuitions  —  had 
held  you  different  from  the  rest." 

Her  words  were  to  his  soul  as  a  sword  of  fire  might 
have  been  to  his  flesh.  They  scorched  and  shrivelled 
it.  He  saw  himself  as  she  would  have  him  see  himself 
—  a  mean,  contemptible  craven;  a  coward  who  made 
big  talk  in  times  of  peace,  but  faced  about  and  van- 
ished into  hiding  at  the  first  sign  of  danger.  He  felt 
himself  the  meanest,  vilest  thing  a-crawl  upon  this 
sinful  earth,  and  she  —  dear  God !  —  had  thought 
him  different  from  the  ruck.  She  had  held  him  in  high 
esteem,  and  behold,  how  short  had  he  not  fallen  of 
all  her  expectations!  Shame  and  vanity  combined  to 
work  a  sudden,  sharp  revulsion  in  his  feelings. 

"Marquise,"  he  cried,  "you  say  no  more  than  what 
is  just.  But  punish  me  no  further.  I  meant  not  what 
I  said.  I  was  beside  myself.  Let  me  atone  —  let  my 
future  actions  make  amends  for  that  odious  departure 
from  my  true  self." 

There  was  no  scorn  now  in  her  smile;  only  an  in- 
effable tenderness,  beholding  which  he  felt  it  in  his 
heart  to  hang  if  need  be  that  he  might  continue  high 
in  her  regard.  He  sprang  forward,  and  took  the  hand 
she  extended  to  him. 

"I  knew,  Tressan,"  said  she,  "that  you  were  not 
yourself,  and  that  when  you  bethought  you  of  what 
you  had  said,  my  valiant,  faithful  friend  would  not 
desert  me." 

He  stooped  over  her  hand,  and  slobbered  kisses 
upon  her  unresponsive  glove. 

"Madame,"  said  he,  "you  may  count  upon  me. 


THE  SENESCHAL  OF  DAUPHINY 


This  fellow  out  of  Paris  shall  have  no  men  from  me, 
depend  upon  it." 

She  caught  him  by  the  shoulders,  and  held  him  so, 
before  her.  Her  face  was  radiant,  alluring;  and  her 
eyes  dwelt  on  his  with  a  kindness  he  had  never  seen 
there  save  in  some  wild  daydream  of  his. 

"I  will  not  refuse  a  service  you  offer  me  so  gal- 
lantly," said  she.  "It  were  an  ill  thing  to  wound  you 
by  so  refusing  it." 

"Marquise,"  he  cried,  "it  is  as  nothing  to  what  I 
would  do  did  the  occasion  serve.  But  when  this  thing 
is  done;  when  you  have  had  your  way  with  Made- 
moiselle de  La  Vauvraye,  and  the  nuptials  shall  have 
been  celebrated,  then  —  dare  I  hope  —  ?" 

He  said  no  more  in  words,  but  his  little  blue  eyes 
had  an  eloquence  that  left  nothing  to  mere  speech. 

Their  glances  met,  she  holding  him  always  at  arm's 
length  by  that  grip  upon  his  shoulders,  a  grip  that 
was  firm  and  nervous. 

In  the  Seneschal  of  Dauphiny,  as  she  now  gazed 
upon  him,  she  beheld  a  very  toad  of  a  man,  and  the 
soul  of  her  shuddered  at  the  sight  of  him  combining 
with  the  thing  that  he  suggested.  But  her  glance  was 
steady  and  her  lips  maintained  their  smile,  just  as  if 
that  ugliness  of  his  had  been  invested  with  some  ab- 
stract beauty  existing  only  to  her  gaze;  a  little  colour 
crept  into  her  cheeks,  and  red  being  the  colour  of 
love's  livery,  Tressan  misread  its  meaning. 

She  nodded  to  him  across  the  little  distance  of  her 
outstretched  arms,  then  smothered  a  laugh  that  drove 
him  crazed  with  hope,  and  breaking  from  him  she 
sped  swiftly,  shyly  it  almost  seemed  to  him,  to  the 
door. 


18  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


There  she  paused  a  moment  looking  back  at  him 
with  a  coyness  that  might  have  become  a  girl  of  half 
her  years,  yet  which  her  splendid  beauty  saved  from 
being  unbecoming  even  in  her. 

One  adorable  smile  she  gave  him,  and  before  he 
could  advance  to  hold  the  door  for  her,  she  had 
opened  it  and  passed  out. 


CHAPTER  II 


MONSIEUR  DE  GARNACHE 

TO  promise  rashly,  particularly  where  a  woman  is 
the  suppliant,  and  afterwards,  if  not  positively 
to  repent  the  promise,  at  least  to  regret  that  one  did 
not  hedge  it  with  a  few  conditions,  is  a  proceeding  not 
uncommon  to  youth.  In  a  man  of  advanced  age,  such 
as  Monsieur  de  Tressan,  it  never  should  have  place; 
and,  indeed,  it  seldom  has,  unless  that  man  has  come 
again  under  the  sway  of  the  influences  by  which 
youth,  for  good  or  ill,  is  governed. 

Whilst  the  flush  of  his  adoration  was  upon  him,  hot 
from  the  contact  of  her  presence,  he  knew  no  repent- 
ance, found  room  in  his  mind  for  no  regrets.  He 
crossed  to  the  window,  and  pressed  his  huge  round 
ja.ce  to  the  pane,  in  a  futile  effort  to  watch  her  mount 
and  ride  out  of  the  courtyard  with  her  little  troop  of 
attendants.  Finding  that  he  might  not  —  the  win- 
dow being  placed  too  high  —  gratify  his  wishes  in 
that  connection,  he  dropped  into  his  chair,  and  sat 
in  the  fast-deepening  gloom,  reviewing,  fondly  here, 
hurriedly  there,  the  interview  that  had  but  ended. 

Thus  night  fell,  and  darkness  settled  down  about 
him,  relieved  only  by  the  red  glow  of  the  logs  smoul- 
dering on  the  hearth.  In  the  gloom  inspiration  visited 
him.  He  called  for  lights  and  Babylas.  Both  came, 
and  he  dispatched  the  lackey  that  lighted  the  tapers 
to  summon  Monsieur  d'Aubran,  the  commander  of 
the  garrison  of  Grenoble. 
In  the  interval  before  the  soldier's  coming  he  con- 


io  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


ferred  with  Babylas  concerning  what  he  had  in  mind, 
but  he  found  his  secretary  singularly  dull  and  unim- 
aginative. So  that,  perforce,  he  must  fall  back  upon 
himself.  He  sat  glum  and  thoughtful,  his  mind  in  un- 
productive travail,  until  the  captain  was  announced. 

Still  without  any  definite  plan,  he  blundered  head- 
long, nevertheless,  into  the  necessary  first  step  to- 
wards the  fulfilment  of  his  purpose. 

"Captain,"  said  he,  looking  mighty  grave,  "I  have 
cause  to  believe  that  all  is  not  as  it  should  be  in  the 
hills  in  the  district  of  Montelimar." 

"Is  there  trouble,  monsieur?"  inquired  the  captain, 
startled. 

"Maybe  there  is,  maybe  there  is  not,"  returned  the 
Seneschal  mysteriously.  "You  shall  have  your  full 
orders  in  the  morning.  Meanwhile,  make  ready  to  re- 
pair to  the  neighbourhood  of  Montelimar  to-morrow 
with  a  couple  of  hundred  men." 

"A  couple  of  hundred,  monsieur!"  exclaimed 
d'Aubran.  "But  that  will  be  to  empty  Grenoble  of 
soldiers." 

"What  of  it?  We  are  not  likely  to  require  them 
here.  Let  your  orders  for  preparation  go  round  to- 
night, so  that  your  knaves  may  be  ready  to  set  out 
betimes  to-morrow.  If  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  wait 
upon  me  early  you  shall  have  your  instructions." 

Mystified,  Monsieur  d'Aubran  departed  on  his  er- 
rand, and  my  Lord  Seneschal  went  down  to  supper 
well  pleased  with  the  cunning  device  by  which  he  was 
to  leave  Grenoble  without  a  garrison.  It  was  an  as- 
tute way  of  escape  from  the  awkward  situation  into 
which  his  attachment  to  the  interests  of  the  dowager 
of  Condillac  was  likely  to  place  him. 


MONSIEUR  DE  GARNACHE  21 


But  when  the  morning  came  he  was  less  pleased 
with  the  idea,  chiefly  because  he  had  been  unable  to 
invent  any  details  that  should  lend  it  the  necessary 
colour,  and  d'Aubran  —  worse  luck  —  was  an  intel- 
ligent officer  who  might  evince  a  pardonable  but  em- 
barrassing curiosity.  A  leader  of  soldiers  has  a  right 
to  know  something  at  least  of  the  enterprise  upon 
which  he  leads  them.  By  morning,  too,  Tressan  found 
that  the  intervening  space  of  the  night,  since  he  had 
seen  Madame  de  Condillac,  had  cooled  his  ardour 
very  considerably. 

He  had  reached  the  incipient  stages  of  regret  of  his 
rash  promise. 

When  Captain  d'Aubran  was  announced  to  him,  he 
bade  them  ask  him  to  come  again  in  an  hour's  time. 
From  mere  regrets  he  was  passing  now,  through  dis- 
may, into  utter  repentance  of  his  promise.  He  sat  in 
his  study,  at  his  littered  writing-table,  his  head  in  his 
hands,  a  confusion  of  thoughts,  a  wild,  frenzied  striv- 
ing after  invention  in  his  brain. 

Thus  Anselme  found  him  when  he  thrust  aside  the 
portiere  to  announce  that  a  Monsieur  de  Garnache, 
from  Paris,  was  below,  demanding  to  see  the  Lord 
Seneschal  at  once  upon  an  affair  of  State. 

Tressan's  flesh  trembled  and  his  heart  fainted. 
Then,  suddenly,  desperately,  he  took  his  courage  in 
both  hands.  He  remembered  who  he  was  and  what  he 
was  —  the  King's  Lord  Seneschal  of  the  Province 
of  Dauphiny.  Throughout  that  province,  from  the 
Rhone  to  the  Alps,  his  word  was  law,  his  name  a 
terror  to  evildoers  —  and  to  some  others  besides. 
Was  he  to  blench  and  tremble  at  the  mention  of  the 
name  of  a  Court  lackey  out  of  Paris,  who  brought  him 


ii  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


a  message  from  the  Queen-Regent?  Body  of  God! 
not  he. 

He  heaved  himself  to  his  feet,  warmed  and  heart- 
ened by  the  thought;  his  eye  sparkled,  and  there  was 
a  deeper  flush  than  usual  upon  his  cheek. 

"Admit  this  Monsieur  de  Garnache,"  said  he  with 
a  fine  loftiness,  and  in  his  heart  he  pondered  what  he 
would  say  and  how  he  should  say  it;  how  he  should 
stand,  how  move,  and  how  look.  His  roving  eye 
caught  sight  of  his  secretary.  He  remembered  some- 
thing —  the  cherished  pose  of  being  a  man  plunged 
fathoms-deep  in  business.  Sharply  he  uttered  his  sec- 
retary's name. 

Babylas  raised  his  pale  face;  he  knew  what  was 
coming;  it  had  come  so  many  times  before.  But  there 
was  no  vestige  of  a  smile  on  his  drooping  lips,  no 
gleam  of  amusement  in  his  patient  eye.  He  thrust 
aside  the  papers  on  which  he  was  at  work,  and  drew 
towards  him  a  fresh  sheet  on  which  to  pen  the  letter 
which,  he  knew  by  experience,  Tressan  was  about  to 
indite  to  the  Queen-mother.  For  these  purposes  Her 
Majesty  was  Tressan's  only  correspondent. 

Then  the  door  opened,  the  portiere  was  swept  aside, 
and  Anselme  announced  "Monsieur  de  Garnache." 

Tressan  turned  as  the  newcomer  stepped  briskly 
into  the  room,  and  bowed,  hat  in  hand,  its  long  crim- 
son feather  sweeping  the  ground,  then  straightened 
himself  and  permitted  the  Seneschal  to  take  his 
measure. 

Tressan  beheld  a  man  of  a  good  height,  broad  to  the 
waist  and  spare  thence  to  the  ground,  who  at  first 
glance  appeared  to  be  mainly  clad  in  leather.  A  buff 
jerkin  fitted  his  body;  below  it  there  was  a  glimpse  of 


MONSIEUR  DE  GARNACHE 


wine-coloured  trunks,  and  hose  of  a  slightly  deeper 
hue,  which  vanished  immediately  into  a  pair  of  huge 
thigh-boots  of  untanned  leather.  A  leather  sword- 
belt,  gold-embroidered  at  the  edges,  carried  a  long 
steel-hilted  rapier  in  a  leather  scabbard  chaped  with 
steel.  The  sleeves  of  his  doublet  which  protruded  from 
his  leather  casing  were  of  the  same  colour  and  mate- 
rial as  his  trunks.  In  one  hand  he  carried  his  broad 
black  hat  with  its  crimson  feather,  in  the  other  a 
little  roll  of  parchment;  and  when  he  moved  the  creak 
of  leather  and  jingle  of  his  spurs  made  pleasant  music 
for  a  martial  spirit. 

Above  all,  this  man's  head,  well  set  upon  his  shoul- 
ders, claimed  some  attention.  His  nose  was  hooked 
and  rather  large,  his  eyes  were  blue,  bright  as  steel, 
and  set  a  trifle  wide.  Above  a  thin-lipped,  delicate 
mouth  his  reddish  mustachios,  slightly  streaked  with 
grey,  stood  out,  bristling  like  a  cat's.  His  hair  was 
darker  —  almost  brown  —  save  at  the  temples,  where 
age  had  faded  it  to  an  ashen  colour.  In  general  his 
aspect  was  one  of  rugged  strength. 

The  Seneschal,  measuring  him  with  an  adversary's 
eye,  misliked  his  looks.  But  he  bowed  urbanely,  wash- 
ing his  hands  in  the  air,  and  murmuring: 

"Your  servant,  Monsieur  de  ?" 

"Garnache,"  came  the  other's  crisp,  metallic  voice, 
and  the  name  had  a  sound  as  of  an  oath  on  his  lips. 
"  Martin  Marie  Rigobert  de  Garnache.  I  come  to  you 
on  an  errand  of  Her  Majesty's,  as  this  my  warrant 
will  apprise  you."  And  he  proffered  the  paper  he 
held,  which  Tressan  accepted  from  his  hand. 

A  change  was  visible  in  the  wily  Seneschal's  fat 
countenance.  Its  round  expanse  had  expressed  inter- 


24  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


rogation  until  now;  but  at  the  Parisian's  announce- 
ment that  he  was  an  emissary  of  the  Queen's,  Tressan 
insinuated  into  it  just  that  look  of  surprise  and  of 
increased  deference  which  would  have  been  natural 
had  he  not  already  been  forewarned  of  Monsieur  de 
Garnache's  mission  and  identity. 

He  placed  a  chair  at  his  visitor's  disposal,  himself 
resuming  his  seat  at  his  writing-table,  and  unfolding 
the  paper  Garnache  had  given  him.  The  newcomer 
seated  himself,  hitched  his  sword-belt  round  so  that 
he  could  lean  both  hands  upon  the  hilt,  and  sat,  stiff 
and  immovable,  awaiting  the  Lord  Seneschal's  pleas- 
ure. From  his  desk  across  the  room  the  secretary, 
idly  chewing  the  feathered  end  of  his  goose-quill,  took 
silent  stock  of  the  man  from  Paris,  and  wondered. 

Tressan  folded  the  paper  carefully,  and  returned  it 
to  its  owner.  It  was  no  more  than  a  formal  creden- 
tial, setting  forth  that  Garnache  was  travelling  into 
Dauphiny  on  a  State  affair,  and  commanding  Mon- 
sieur de  Tressan  to  give  him  every  assistance  he 
might  require  in  the  performance  of  his  errand. 

" Parfaitement"  purred  the  Lord  Seneschal.  "And 
now,  monsieur,  if  you  will  communicate  to  me  the 
nature  of  your  affair,  you  shall  find  me  entirely  at 
your  service." 

"It  goes  without  saying  that  you  are  acquainted 
with  the  Chateau  de  Condillac?"  began  Garnache, 
plunging  straight  into  business. 

"Perfectly."  The  Seneschal  leaned  back,  and  was 
concerned  to  feel  his  pulses  throbbing  a  shade  too 
quickly.  But  he  controlled  his  features,  and  main- 
tained a  placid,  bland  expression. 

"You  are  perhaps  acquainted  with  its  inhabit- 
ants?" 


MONSIEUR  DE  GARNACHE  25 


"Yes." 

"Intimate  with  them?" 

The  Seneschal  pursed  his  lips,  arched  his  brows, 
and  slowly  waved  his  podgy  hands,  a  combination  of 
grimace  and  gesture  that  said  much  or  nothing.  But 
reflecting  that  Monsieur  de  Tressan  had  a  tongue, 
Garnache  apparently  did  not  opine  it  worth  his  while 
to  set  a  strain  upon  his  own  imagination,  for  — 

"Intimate  with  them?"  he  repeated,  and  this  time 
there  was  a  sharper  note  in  his  voice. 

Tressan  leaned  forward  and  brought  his  finger-tips 
together.  His  voice  was  as  urbane  as  it  lay  within  its 
power  to  be. 

"I  understood  that  monsieur  was  proposing  to 
state  his  business,  not  to  question  mine." 

Garnache  sat  back  in  his  chair,  and  his  eyes  nar- 
rowed. He  scented  opposition,  and  the  greatest 
stumbling-block  in  Garnache's  career  had  been  that 
he  could  never  learn  to  brook  opposition  from  any 
man.  That  characteristic,  evinced  early  in  life,  had 
all  but  been  the  ruin  of  him.  He  was  a  man  of  high 
intellectual  gifts,  of  military  skill  and  great  resource; 
out  of  consideration  for  which  had  he  been  chosen  by 
Marie  de  Medicis  to  come  upon  this  errand.  But  he 
marred  it  all  by  a  temper  so  ungovernable  that  in 
Paris  there  was  current  a  byword,  "Explosive  as 
Garnache." 

Little  did  Tressan  dream  to  what  a  cask  of  gun- 
powder he  was  applying  the  match  of  his  smug  pert- 
ness.  Nor  did  Garnache  let  him  dream  it  just  yet. 
He  controlled  himself  betimes,  bethinking  him  that, 
after  all,  there  might  be  some  reason  in  what  this  fat 
fellow  said. 


26  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


"You  misapprehend  my  purpose,  sir,"  said  he,  his 
lean  brown  hand  stroking  his  long  chin.  "I  but 
sought  to  learn  how  far  already  you  may  be  informed 
of  what  is  taking  place  up  there,  to  the  end  that  I 
may  spare  myself  the  pains  of  citing  facts  with  which 
already  you  are  acquainted.  Still,  monsieur,  I  am 
willing  to  proceed  upon  the  lines  which  would  appear 
to  be  more  agreeable  to  yourself. 

"This,  then,  is  the  sum  of  the  affair  that  brings  me: 
The  late  Marquis  de  Condillac  left  two  sons.  The 
elder,  Florimond  —  who  is  the  present  marquis,  and 
who  has  been  and  still  continues  absent,  warring  in 
Italy,  since  before  his  father's  death  —  is  the  stepson 
of  the  present  Dowager,  she  being  the  mother  of  the 
younger  son,  Marius  de  Condillac. 

"Should  you  observe  me  to  be  anywhere  at  error,  I 
beg,  monsieur,  that  you  will  have  the  complaisance 
to  correct  me." 

The  Seneschal  bowed  gravely,  and  Monsieur  de 
Garnache  continued: 

"Now  this  younger  son  —  I  believe  that  he  is  in  his 
twenty-first  year  at  present  —  has  been  something  of 
a  scapegrace." 

"A  scapegrace?  Bon  Dieu,  no.  That  is  a  harsh 
name  to  give  him.  A  little  indiscreet  at  times,  a  little 
rash,  as  is  the  way  of  youth.'' 

He  would  have  said  more,  but  the  man  from  Paris 
was  of  no  mind  to  waste  time  on  quibbles. 

"Very  well,"  he  snapped,  cutting  in.  "We  will  say, 
a  little  indiscreet.  My  errand  is  not  concerned  with 
Monsieur  Marius's  morals  or  with  his  lack  of  them. 
These  indiscretions  which  you  belittle  appear  to  have 
been  enough  to  have  estranged  him  from  his  father,  a 


MONSIEUR  DE  GARNACHE 


circumstance  which  but  served  the  more  to  endear 
him  to  his  mother.  I  am  told  that  she  is  a  very  hand- 
some woman,  and  that  the  boy  favours  her  surpris- 
ingly." 

" Ah !"  sighed  the  Seneschal  in  a  rapture.  "A  beau- 
tiful woman  —  a  noble,  splendid  woman." 

"Hum!"  Garnache  observed  the  ecstatic  simper 
with  a  grim  eye.  Then  he  proceeded  with  his  story. 

"The  late  marquis  possessed  in  his  neighbour,  the 
also  deceased  Monsieur  de  La  Vauvraye,  a  very  deal 
and  valued  friend.  Monsieur  de  La  Vauvraye  had  an 
only  child,  a  daughter,  to  inherit  his  very  considerable 
estates  —  probably  the  wealthiest  in  all  Dauphiny,  so 
I  am  informed.  It  was  the  dearest  wish  of  his  heart  to 
transform  what  had  been  a  lifelong  friendship  in  his 
own  generation  into  a  closer  relationship  in  the  next 
—  a  wish  that  found  a  very  ready  echo  in  the  heart  of 
Monsieur  de  Condillac.  Florimond  de  Condillac  was 
sixteen  years  of  age  at  the  time,  and  Valerie  de  La 
Vauvraye  fourteen.  For  all  their  tender  years,  they 
were  betrothed,  and  they  grew  up  to  love  each  other 
and  to  look  forward  to  the  consummation  of  the  plans 
their  fathers  had  laid  for  them." 

"Monsieur,  monsieur,"  the  Seneschal  protested, 
"how  can  you  possibly  infer  so  much?  How  can  you 
say  that  they  loved  each  other?  What  authority  can 
you  have  for  pretending  to  know  what  was  in  their 
inmost  hearts?" 

"The  authority  of  Mademoiselle  de  La  Vauvraye," 
was  the  unanswerable  rejoinder.  "I  am  telling  you, 
more  or  less,  what  she  herself  wrote  to  the  Queen." 

"Ah!  Well,  well  —  proceed,  monsieur." 

"This  marriage  should  render  Florimond  de  Con- 


28  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


dillac  the  wealthiest  and  most  powerful  gentleman  in 
Dauphiny  —  one  of  the  wealthiest  in  France;  and  the 
idea  of  it  pleased  the  old  marquis,  inasmuch  as  the 
disparity  there  would  be  between  the  worldly  posses- 
sions of  his  two  sons  would  serve  to  mark  his  dis- 
approval of  the  younger.  But  before  settling  down, 
Florimond  signified  a  desire  to  see  the  world,  as  was 
fit  and  proper  and  becoming  in  a  young  man  who  was 
later  to  assume  such  wide  responsibilities.  His  father, 
realizing  the  wisdom  of  such  a  step,  made  but  slight 
objection,  and  at  the  age  of  twenty  Florimond  set  out 
for  the  Italian  wars.  Two  years  afterwards,  a  little 
over  six  months  ago,  his  father  died,  and  was  followed 
to  the  grave  some  weeks  later  by  Monsieur  de  La 
Vauvraye.  The  latter,  with  a  want  of  foresight  which 
has  given  rise  to  the  present  trouble,  misjudging  the 
character  of  the  Dowager  of  Condillac,  entrusted  to 
her  care  his  daughter  Valerie  pending  Florimond's 
return,  when  the  nuptials  would  naturally  be  immedi- 
ately celebrated.  I  am  probably  telling  you  no  more 
than  you  already  know.  But  you  owe  the  infliction  to 
your  own  unwillingness  to  answer  my  questions." 

"No,  no,  monsieur;  I  assure  you  that  in  what  you 
say  there  is  much  that  is  entirely  new  to  me." 

"I  rejoice  to  hear  it,  Monsieur  de  Tressan,"  said 
Garnache  very  seriously,  "for  had  you  been  in  posses- 
sion of  all  these  facts,  Her  Majesty  might  have  a  right 
to  learn  how  it  chanced  that  you  had  nowise  inter- 
fered in  what  is  toward  at  Condillac. 

"But  to  proceed:  Madame  de  Condillac  and  her 
precious  Benjamin  —  this  Marius  —  rinding  them- 
selves, in  Florimond's  absence,  masters  of  the  situa- 
tion, have  set  about  turning  it  to  their  own  best  ad- 


MONSIEUR  DE  GARNACHE 


vantage.  Mademoiselle  de  La  Vauvraye,  whilst  being 
nominally  under  their  guardianship,  finds  herself 
practically  gaoled  by  them,  and  odious  plans  are  set 
before  her  to  marry  Marius.  Could  the  Dowager  but 
accomplish  this,  it  would  seem  that  she  would  not 
only  be  assuring  a  future  of  ease  and  dignity  for  her 
son,  but  also  be  giving  vent  to  all  her  pent-up  hatred 
of  her  stepson. 

"Mademoiselle,  however,  withstands  them,  and  in 
this  she  is  aided  by  a  fortuitous  circumstance  which 
has  arisen  out  of  the  overbearing  arrogance  that  ap- 
pears to  be  madame's  chief  characteristic.  Condillac 
after  the  marquis's  death  had  refused  to  pay  tithe? 
to  Mother  Church  and  has  flouted  and  insulted  the 
Bishop.  This  prelate,  after  finding  remonstrance 
vain,  has  retorted  by  placing  Condillac  under  an  In- 
terdict, depriving  all  within  it  of  the  benefit  of  clergy. 
Thus,  they  have  been  unable  to  find  a  priest  to  ven- 
ture thither,  so  that  even  had  they  willed  to  marry 
mademoiselle  by  force  to  Marius,  they  lacked  the 
actual  means  of  doing  so. 

"Florimond  continues  absent.  We  have  every  rea- 
son to  believe  that  he  has  been  left  in  ignorance  of  his 
father's  death.  Letters  coming  from  him  from  time  to 
time  prove  that  he  was  alive  and  well  at  least  until 
three  months  ago.  A  messenger  has  been  dispatched 
to  find  him  and  urge  him  to  return  home  at  once. 
But  pending  his  arrival  the  Queen  has  determined  to 
take  the  necessary  steps  to  ensure  that  Mademoiselle 
de  La  Vauvraye  shall  be  released  from  her  captivity, 
that  she  shall  suffer  no  further  molestation  at  the 
hands  of  Madame  de  Condillac  and  her  son  —  enfin, 
that  she  shall  run  no  further  risks. 


30  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


"My  errand,  monsieur,  is  to  acquaint  you  with 
these  facts,  and  to  request  you  to  proceed  to  Condil- 
lac  and  deliver  thence  Mademoiselle  de  La  Vauvraye, 
whom  I  am  subsequently  to  escort  to  Paris  and  place 
under  Her  Majesty's  protection  until  such  time  as  the 
new  marquis  shall  return  to  claim  her." 

Having  concluded,  Monsieur  de  Garnache  sat  back 
in  his  chair,  and  threw  one  leg  over  the  other,  fixing 
his  eyes  upon  the  Seneschal's  face  and  awaiting  his 
reply. 

On  that  gross  countenance  before  him  he  saw  fall 
the  shadow  of  perplexity.  Tressan  was  monstrous  ill— 
at-ease,  and  his  face  lost  a  good  deal  of  its  habitual 
plethora  of  colour.  He  sought  to  temporize. 

"Does  it  not  occur  to  you,  monsieur,  that  perhaps 
too  much  importance  may  have  been  attached  to  the 
word  of  this  child  —  this  Mademoiselle  de  La  Vau- 
vraye?" 

"Does  it  occur  to  you  that  such  has  been  the  case, 
that  she  has  overstated  it?"  counter-questioned 
Monsieur  de  Garnache. 

"  No,  no.  I  do  not  say  that.  But  —  but  —  would 
it  not  be  better  —  more  —  ah  —  satisfactory  to  all 
concerned,  if  you  yourself  were  to  go  to  Condillac, 
and  deliver  your  message  in  person,  demanding 
mademoiselle?" 

The  man  from  Paris  looked  at  him  a  moment,  then 
stood  up  suddenly,  and  shifted  the  carriages  of  his 
sword  back  to  their  normal  position.  His  brows  came 
together  in  a  frown,  from  which  the  Seneschal  argued 
that  his  suggestion  was  not  well  received. 

"Monsieur,"  said  the  Parisian  very  coldly,  like  a 
man  who  contains  a  rising  anger,  "let  me  tell  you  that 


MONSIEUR  DE  GARNACHE 


this  is  the  first  time  in  my  life  that  I  have  been  con- 
cerned in  anything  that  had  to  do  with  women  — 
and  I  am  close  upon  forty  years  of  age.  The  task,  I 
can  assure  you,  was  little  to  my  taste.  I  embarked 
upon  it  because,  being  a  soldier  and  having  received 
my  orders,  I  was  in  the  unfortunate  position  of  being 
unable  to  help  myself.  But  I  intend,  monsieur,  to  ad- 
here rigidly  to  the  letter  of  these  commands.  Already 
I  have  endured  more  than  enough  in  the  interests 
of  this  damsel.  I  have  ridden  from  Paris,  and  that 
means  close  upon  a  week  in  the  saddle  —  no  little 
thing  to  a  man  who  has  acquired  certain  habits  of  life 
and  developed  a  taste  for  certain  minor  comforts 
which  he  is  very  reluctant  to  forgo.  I  have  fed  and 
slept  at  inns,  living  on  the  worst  of  fares  and  sleep- 
ing on  the  hardest,  and  hardly  the  cleanest,  of  beds. 
Ventregrisl  Figure  to  yourself  that  last  night  we  lay 
at  Luzan,  in  the  only  inn  the  place  contained  —  a 
hovel,  Monsieur  le  Seneschal,  a  hovel  in  which  I 
would  not  kennel  a  dog  I  loved." 

His  face  flushed,  and  his  voice  rose  as  he  dwelt  upon 
the  things  he  had  undergone. 

"My  servant  and  I  slept  in  a  dormitory  —  a  thou- 
sand devils !  monsieur,  in  a  dormitory !  Do  you  realize 
it?  We  had  for  company  a  drunken  vintner,  a  ped- 
lar, a  pilgrim  on  his  way  to  Rome,  and  two  peasant 
women;  and  they  sent  us  to  bed  without  candles,  for 
modesty's  sake.  I  ask  you  to  conceive  my  feelings  in 
such  a  case  as  that.  I  could  tell  you  more;  but  that  as 
a  sample  of  what  I  have  undergone  could  scarcely  be 
surpassed." 

"Truly  —  truly  outrageous,"  sympathized  the 
Seneschal;  yet  he  grinned. 


32  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


"  I  ask  you  —  have  I  not  suffered  inconvenience 
enough  already  in  the  service  of  Mademoiselle  de  La 
Vauvraye  that  you  can  blame  me  if  I  refuse  to  go  a 
single  step  further  than  my  orders  bid  me?" 

The  Seneschal  stared  at  him  now  in  increasing  dis- 
may. Had  his  own  interests  been  less  at  issue  he 
could  have  indulged  his  mirth  at  the  other's  fiery  in- 
dignation at  the  inconveniences  he  recited.  As  it  was, 
he  had  nothing  to  say;  no  thought  or  feeling  other 
than  what  concerned  finding  a  way  of  escape  from  the 
net  that  seemed  to  be  closing  in  about  him  —  how  to 
seem  to  serve  the  Queen  without  turning  against  the 
Dowager  of  Condillac;  how  to  seem  to  serve  the 
Dowager  without  opposing  the  wishes  of  the  Queen. 

"A  plague  on  the  girl!"  he  growled,  unconsciously 
uttering  his  thoughts  aloud.  "The  devil  take  her!" 

Garnache  smiled  grimly.  "That  is  a  bond  of  sym- 
pathy between  us,"  said  he.  "I  have  said  those  very 
words  a  hundred  times  —  a  thousand  times,  indeed 
—  between  Paris  and  Grenoble.  Yet  I  scarcely  see 
that  you  can  damn  her  with  as  much  justice  as  can  I. 

"But  there,  monsieur;  all  this  is  unprofitable.  You 
have  my  message.  I  shall  spend  the  day  at  Grenoble, 
and  take  a  well-earned  rest.  By  this  time  to-morrow 
I  shall  be  ready  to  start  upon  my  return  journey.  I 
shall  have  then  the  honour  to  wait  upon  you  again,  to 
the  end  that  I  may  receive  from  you  the  charge  of 
Mademoiselle  de  La  Vauvraye.  I  shall  count  upon 
your  having  her  here,  in  readiness  to  set  out  with  me, 
by  noon  to-morrow." 

He  bowed,  with  a  flourish  of  his  plumed  hat,  and 
would  with  that  have  taken  his  departure  but  that 
the  Seneschal  stayed  him. 


MONSIEUR  DE  GARNACHE  33 


"Monsieur,  monsieur,"  he  cried,  in  piteous  affright, 
"you  do  not  know  the  Dowager  of  Condillac." 
"Why,  no.  What  of  it?" 

"  What  of  it  ?  Did  you  know  her,  you  would  under- 
stand that  she  is  not  the  woman  to  be  driven.  I  may 
order  her  in  the  Queen's  name  to  deliver  up  Made- 
moiselle de  La  Vauvraye.  But  she  will  withstand 
me." 

"Withstand  you?"  echoed  Garnache,  frowning 
into  the  face  of  this  fat  man,  who  had  risen  also, 
brought  to  his  feet  by  excitement.  "Withstand  you 
—  you,  the  Lord  Seneschal  of  Dauphiny?  You  are 
amusing  yourself  at  my  expense." 

"But  I  tell  you  that  she  will,"  the  other  insisted  in 
a  passion.  "You  may  look  for  the  girl  in  vain  to- 
morrow unless  you  go  to  Condillac  yourself  and  take 
her." 

Garnache  drew  himself  up  and  delivered  his  an- 
swer in  a  tone  that  was  final. 

"You  are  the  governor  of  the  province,  monsieur, 
and  in  this  matter  you  have  in  addition  the  Queen's 
particular  authority  —  nay,  her  commands  are  im- 
posed upon  you.  Those  commands,  as  interpreted  by 
me,  you  will  execute  in  the  manner  I  have  indicated." 

The  Seneschal  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  chewed 
a  second  at  his  beard. 

"It  is  an  easy  thing  for  you  to  tell  me  what  to  do. 
Tell  me,  rather,  how  to  do  it,  how  to  overcome  her 
opposition." 

"You  are  very  sure  of  opposition  —  strangely  sure, 
monsieur,"  said  Garnache,  looking  him  between  the 
eyes.  "In  any  case,  you  have  soldiers." 

"And  so  has  she,  and  the  strongest  castle  in  south- 


34  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


ern  France  —  to  say  nothing  of  the  most  cursed  ob- 
stinacy in  the  world.  What  she  says,  she  does." 

"And  what  the  Queen  says  her  loyal  servants  do," 
was  Garnache's  rejoinder,  in  a  withering  tone.  "I 
think  there  is  nothing  more  to  be  said,  monsieur,"  he 
added.  "  By  this  time  to-morrow  I  shall  expect  to  re- 
ceive from  you,  here,  the  charge  of  Mademoiselle  de 
La  Vauvraye.  A  demain,  done,  Monsieur  le  Sen- 
eschal." 

And  with  another  bow  the  man  from  Paris  drew 
himself  erect,  turned  on  his  heel,  and  went  jingling 
and  creaking  from  the  room. 

The  Lord  Seneschal  sank  back  in  his  chair,  and 
wondered  to  himself  whether  to  die  might  not  prove 
an  easy  way  out  of  the  horrid  situation  into  which 
chance  and  his  ill-starred  tenderness  for  the  Dowager 
of  Condillac  had  thrust  him. 

At  his  desk  sat  his  secretary,  who  had  been  a  wit- 
ness of  the  interview,  lost  in  wonder  almost  as  great  as 
the  Seneschal's  own. 

For  an  hour  Tressan  remained  where  he  was,  deep 
in  thought  and  gnawing  at  his  beard.  Then  with  a 
sudden  burst  of  passion,  expressed  in  a  round  oath  or 
two,  he  rose,  and  called  for  his  horse  that  he  might 
ride  to  Condillac. 


CHAPTER  III 


THE  DOWAGER'S  COMPLIANCE 

PROMPTLY  at  noon  on  the  morrow  Monsieur  de 
Garnache  presented  himself  once  more  at  the 
Seneschal's  palace,  and  with  him  went  Rabecque,  his 
body-servant,  a  lean,  swarthy,  sharp-faced  man,  a 
trifle  younger  than  his  master. 

Anselme,  the  obese  master  of  the  household,  re- 
ceived them  with  profound  respect,  and  at  once  con- 
ducted Garnache  to  Monsieur  de  Tressan's  presence. 

On  the  stairs  they  met  Captain  d'Aubran,  who  was 
descending.  The  captain  was  not  in  the  best  of  hu- 
mours. For  four-and-twenty  hours  he  had  kept  two 
hundred  of  his  men  under  arms,  ready  to  march  as 
soon  as  he  should  receive  his  orders  from  the  Lord 
Seneschal,  yet  those  instructions  were  not  forthcom- 
ing. He  had  been  to  seek  them  again  that  morning, 
only  to  be  again  put  off. 

Monsieur  de  Garnache  had  considerable  doubt, 
born  of  his  yesterday's  interview  with  the  Seneschal, 
that  Mademoiselle  de  La  Vauvraye  would  be  deliv- 
ered into  his  charge  as  he  had  stipulated.  His  relief 
was,  therefore,  considerable,  upon  being  ushered  into 
Tressan's  presence,  to  find  a  lady  in  cloak  and  hat, 
dressed  as  for  a  journey,  seated  in  a  chair  by  the  great 
fireplace. 

Tressan  advanced  to  meet  him,  a  smile  of  cordial 
welcome  on  his  lips,  and  they  bowed  to  each  other  in 
formal  greeting. 


36  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


"You  see,  monsieur,"  said  the  Seneschal,  waving  a 
plump  hand  in  the  direction  of  the  lady,  "that  you 
have  been  obeyed.  Here  is  your  charge." 

Then  to  the  lady:  "This  is  Monsieur  de  Garnache," 
he  announced,  "of  whom  I  have  already  told  you, 
who  is  to  conduct  you  to  Paris  by  order  of  Her  Maj- 
esty. 

"And  now,  my  good  friends,  however  great  the 
pleasure  I  derive  from  your  company,  I  care  not  how 
soon  you  set  out,  for  I  have  some  prodigious  arrears 
of  work  upon  my  hands." 

Garnache  bowed  to  the  lady,  who  returned  his 
greeting  by  an  inclination  of  the  head,  and  his  keen 
eyes  played  briskly  over  her.  She  was  a  plump-faced, 
insipid  child,  with  fair  hair  and  pale  blue  eyes,  stolid 
and  bovine  in  their  expressionlessness. 

"I  am  quite  ready,  monsieur,"  said  she,  rising  as 
she  spoke,  and  gathering  her  cloak  about  her;  and 
Garnache  remarked  that  her  voice  had  the  southern 
drawl,  her  words  the  faintest  suggestion  of  a  patois. 
It  was  amazing  how  a  lady  born  and  bred  could 
degenerate  in  the  rusticity  of  Dauphiny.  Pigs  and 
cows,  he  made  no  doubt,  had  been  her  chief  objec- 
tives. Yet,  even  so,  he  thought  he  might  have  ex- 
pected that  she  would  have  had  more  to  say  to  him 
than  just  those  five  words  expressing  her  readiness  to 
depart.  He  had  looked  for  some  acknowledgment  of 
satisfaction  at  his  presence,  some  utterances  of  grati- 
tude either  to  himself  or  to  the  Queen-Regent  for  the 
promptness  with  which  she  had  been  succoured.  He 
was  disappointed,  but  he  showed  nothing  of  it,  as 
with  a  simple  inclination  of  the  head  — 

"Good!"  said  he.  "Since  you  are  ready  and  Mon- 


THE  DOWAGER'S  COMPLIANCE  37 


sieur  le  Seneschal  is  anxious  to  be  rid  of  us,  let  us  by 
all  means  be  moving.  You  have  a  long  and  tedious 
journey  before  you,  mademoiselle." 

"I  —  I  am  prepared  for  that,"  she  faltered. 

He  stood  aside,  and  bending  from  the  waist  he  made 
a  sweeping  gesture  towards  the  door  with  the  hand 
that  held  his  hat.  To  the  invitation  to  precede  him 
she  readily  responded,  and,  with  a  bow  to  the  Sen- 
eschal, she  began  to  walk  across  the  apartment. 

Garnache's  eyes,  narrowing  slightly,  followed  her, 
like  points  of  steel.  Suddenly  he  shot  a  disturbing 
glance  at  Tressan's  face,  and  the  corner  of  his  wild-cat 
mustachios  twitched.  He  stood  erect,  and  called  her 
very  sharply. 

"Mademoiselle!" 

She  stopped,  and  turned  to  face  him,  an  incredible 
shyness  seeming  to  cause  her  to  avoid  his  gaze. 

"You  have,  no  doubt,  Monsieur  le  Seneschal's 
word  for  my  identity.  But  I  think  it  is  as  well  that 
you  should  satisfy  yourself.  Before  placing  yourself 
entirely  in  my  care,  as  you  are  about  to  do,  you  would 
be  well  advised  to  assure  yourself,  that  I  am  indeed 
Her  Majesty's  emissary.  Will  you  be  good  enough  to 
glance  at  this?" 

He  drew  forth  as  he  spoke  the  letter  in  the  Queen's 
own  hand,  turned  it  upside  down,  and  so  presented  it 
to  her.  The  Seneschal  looked  on  stolidly,  a  few  paces 
distant. 

"But  certainly,  mademoiselle,  assure  yourself  that 
this  gentleman  is  no  other  than  I  have  told  you." 

Thus  enjoined,  she  took  the  letter;  for  a  second  her 
eyes  met  Garnache's  glittering  gaze,  and  she  shivered. 
Then  she  bent  her  glance  to  the  writing,  and  studied 


38  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 

it  a  moment,  what  time  the  man  from  Paris  watched 
her  closely. 

Presently  she  handed  it  back  to  him. 

"Thank  you,  monsieur,"  was  all  she  said. 

"You  are  satisfied  that  it  is  in  order,  mademoi- 
selle?" he  inquired,  and  a  note  of  mockery  too  subtle 
for  her  or  the  Seneschal  ran  through  his  question. 

"I  am  quite  satisfied." 

Garnache  turned  to  Tressan.  His  eyes  were  smil- 
ing, but  unpleasantly,  and  in  his  voice  when  he  spoke 
there  was  something  akin  to  the  distant  rumble  that 
heralds  an  approaching  storm. 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  he,  "has  received  an  eccen- 
tric education." 

"Eh?"  quoth  Tressan,  perplexed. 

"I  have  heard  tell,  monsieur,  of  a  people  some- 
where in  the  East  who  read  and  write  from  right  to 
left;  but  never  yet  have  I  heard  tell  of  any  —  particu- 
larly in  France  —  so  oddly  schooled  as  to  do  their 
reading  upside  down." 

Tressan  caught  the  drift  of  the  other's  meaning. 
He  paled  a  little,  and  sucked  his  lip,  his  eyes  wander- 
ing to  the  girl,  who  stood  in  stolid  inapprehension  of 
what  was  being  said. 

"Did  she  do  that?"  said  he,  and  he  scarcely  knew 
what  he  was  saying;  all  that  he  realized  was  that 
it  urged  him  to  explain  this  thing.  "Mademoiselle's 
education  has  been  neglected  —  a  by  no  means  un- 
common happening  in  these  parts.  She  is  sensitive  of 
it;  she  seeks  to  hide  the  fact." 

Then  the  storm  broke  about  their  heads.  And  it 
crashed  and  thundered  awfully  in  the  next  few  min- 
utes. 


THE  DOWAGER'S  COMPLIANCE 


"O  liar!  O  damned,  audacious  liar,"  roared  Gar- 
nache  uncompromisingly,  advancing  a  step  upon  the 
Seneschal,  and  shaking  the  parchment  threateningly 
in  his  very  face,  as  though  it  were  become  a  weapon  of 
offence.  "Was  it  to  hide  the  fact  that  she  had  not 
been  taught  to  write  that  she  sent  the  Queen  a  letter 
pages-long?  Who  is  this  woman?"  And  the  finger  he 
pointed  at  the  girl  quivered  with  the  rage  that  filled 
him  at  this  trick  they  had  thought  to  put  upon  him. 

Tressan  sought  refuge  in  offended  dignity.  He 
drew  himself  up,  threw  back  his  head,  and  looked  the 
Parisian  fiercely  in  the  eye. 

"Since  you  take  this  tone  with  me,  monsieur  — " 

"I  take  with  you  —  as  with  any  man  —  the  tone 
that  to  me  seems  best.  You  miserable  fool!  As  sure 
as  you're  a  rogue  this  affair  shall  cost  you  your  posi- 
tion. You  have  waxed  fat  and  sleek  in  your  seneschal- 
ship;  this  easy  life  in  Dauphiny  appears  to  have  been 
well  suited  to  your  health.  But  as  your  paunch  has 
grown,  so,  of  a  truth,  have  your  brains  dwindled,  else 
had  you  never  thought  to  cheat  me  quite  so  easily. 

"Am  I  some  lout  who  has  spent  his  days  herding 
swine,  think  you,  that  you  could  trick  me  into  believ- 
ing this  creature  to  be  Mademoiselle  de  La  Vauvraye 
—  this  creature  with  the  mien  of  a  peasant,  with  a 
breath  reeking  of  garlic  like  a  third-rate  eating-house, 
and  the  walk  of  a  woman  who  has  never  known  foot- 
gear until  this  moment?  Tell  me,  sir,  for  what  manner 
of  fool  did  you  take  me?" 

The  Seneschal  stood  with  blanched  face  and  gaping 
mouth,  his  fire  all  turned  to  ashes  before  the  passion  of 
this  gaunt  man. 

Garnache  paid  no  heed  to  him.  He  stepped  to  the 


SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


girl,  and  roughly  raised  her  chin  with  his  hand  so  that 
she  was  forced  to  look  him  in  the  face. 

"What  is  your  name,  wench?"  he  asked  her. 

"Margot,"  she  blubbered,  bursting  into  tears. 

He  dropped  her  chin,  and  turned  away  with  a  ges- 
ture of  disgust. 

"Get  you  gone,"  he  bade  her  harshly.  "Get  you 
back  to  the  kitchen  or  the  onion-field  from  which  they 
took  you." 

And  the  girl,  scarce  believing  her  good  fortune,  de- 
parted with  a  speed  that  bordered  on  the  ludicrous. 
Tressan  had  naught  to  say,  no  word  to  stay  her  with; 
pretence,  he  realized,  was  vain. 

"Now,  my  Lord  Seneschal,"  quoth  Garnache, 
arms  akimbo,  feet  planted  wide,  and  eyes  upon  the 
wretched  man's  countenance,  "what  may  you  have 
to  say  to  me?" 

Tressan  shifted  his  position;  he  avoided  the  other's 
glance;  he  was  visibly  trembling,  and  when  presently 
he  spoke  it  was  in  faltering  accents. 

"It  —  it  —  seems,  monsieur,  that  —  ah  —  that  I 
have  been  the  victim  of  some  imposture." 

"It  had  rather  seemed  to  me  that  the  victim  chosen 
was  myself." 

"Clearly  we  were  both  victims,"  the  Seneschal  re- 
joined. Then  he  proceeded  to  explain.  "I  went  to 
Condillac  yesterday  as  you  desired  me,  and  after  a 
stormy  interview  with  the  Marquise  I  obtained  from 
her  —  as  I  believed  —  the  person  of  Mademoiselle  de 
La  Vauvraye.  You  see  I  was  not  myself  acquainted 
with  the  lady." 

Garnache  looked  at  him.  He  did  not  believe  him. 
He  regretted  almost  that  he  had  not  further  ques- 


THE  DOWAGER'S  COMPLIANCE 


tioned  the  girl.  But,  after  all,  perhaps  it  might  be 
easier  and  more  expedient  if  he  were  to  appear  to  ac- 
cept the  Seneschal's  statement.  But  he  must  provide 
against  further  fraud. 

"Monsieur  le  Seneschal,"  said  he  in  calmer  tones, 
putting  his  anger  from  him,  "at  the  best  you  are  a 
blunderer  and  an  ass,  at  the  worst  a  traitor.  I  will 
inquire  no  further  at  present;  I'll  not  seek  to  dis- 
criminate too  finely." 

"Monsieur,  these  insults — "  began  the  Seneschal, 
summoning  dignity  to  his  aid.  But  Garnache  broke 
in: 

"La,  la!  I  speak  in  the  Queen's  name.  If  you  have 
thought  to  aid  the  Dowager  of  Condillac  in  this  re- 
sistance of  Her  Majesty's  mandate,  let  me  enjoin 
you,  as  you  value  your  seneschalship  —  as  you  value 
your  very  neck  —  to  harbour  that  thought  no  longer. 

"It  seems  that,  after  all,  I  must  deal  myself  with 
the  situation.  I  must  go  myself  to  Condillac.  If  they 
should  resist  me,  I  shall  look  to  you  for  the  necessary 
means  to  overcome  that  resistance. 

"And  bear  you  this  in  mind:  I  have  chosen  to  leave 
it  an  open  question  whether  you  were  a  party  to  the 
trick  it  has  been  sought  to  put  upon  the  Queen, 
through  me,  her  representative.  But  it  is  a  question 
that  I  have  it  in  my  power  to  resolve  at  any  moment 
—  to  resolve  as  I  choose.  Unless,  monsieur,  I  find 
you  hereafter  —  as  I  trust  —  actuated  by  the  most 
unswerving  loyalty,  I  shall  resolve  that  question  by 
proclaiming  you  a  traitor;  and  as  a  traitor  I  shall 
arrest  you  and  carry  you  to  Paris.  Monsieur  le  Sen- 
eschal, I  have  the  honour  to  give  you  good-day!" 

When  he  was  gone,  Monsieur  de  Tressan  flung  off 


42  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


his  wig,  and  mopped  the  perspiration  from  his  brow. 
He  went  white  as  snow  and  red  as  fire  by  turns,  as  he 
paced  the  apartment  in  a  frenzy.  Never  in  the  fifteen 
years  that  were  sped  since  he  had  been  raised  to  the 
governorship  of  the  province  had  any  man  taken  such 
a  tone  with  him  and  harangued  him  in  such  terms. 

A  liar  and  a  traitor  had  he  been  called  that  morn- 
ing, a  knave  and  a  fool;  he  had  been  browbeaten  and 
threatened;  and  he  had  swallowed  it  all,  and  almost 
turned  to  lick  the  hand  that  administered  the  dose. 
Dame!  What  manner  of  cur  was  he  become?  And  the 
man  who  had  done  all  this  —  a  vulgar  upstart  out 
of  Paris,  reeking  of  leather  and  the  barrack-room  — 
still  lived ! 

Bloodshed  was  in  his  mind;  murder  beckoned  him 
alluringly  to  take  her  as  his  ally.  But  he  put  the 
thought  from  him,  frenzied  though  he  might  be.  He 
must  fight  this  knave  with  other  weapons;  frustrate 
his  mission,  and  send  him  back  to  Paris  and  the 
Queen's  scorn,  beaten  and  empty-handed. 

"Babylas!"  he  shouted. 

Immediately  the  secretary  appeared. 

"Have  you  given  thought  to  the  matter  of  Captain 
d'Aubran?"  he  asked,  his  voice  an  impatient  snarl. 

"Yes,  monsieur,  I  have  pondered  it  all  morning." 

"Well?  And  what  have  you  concluded?" 

"He/as!  monsieur,  nothing." 

Tressan  smote  the  table  before  him  a  blow  that 
shook  some  of  the  dust  out  of  the  papers  that  cum- 
bered it.  "  Ventregris!  How  am  I  served  ?  For  what 
do  I  pay  you,  and  feed  you,  and  house  you,  good-for- 
naught,  if  you  are  to  fail  me  whenever  I  need  the 
things  you  call  your  brains?  Have  you  no  intelli- 


THE  DOWAGER'S  COMPLIANCE  43 


gence,  no  thought,  no  imagination?  Can  you  invent 
no  plausible  business,  no  likely  rising,  no  possible  dis- 
turbances that  shall  justify  my  sending  Aubran  and 
his  men  to  Montelimar  —  to  the  very  devil,  if  need 
be?" 

The  secretary  trembled  in  his  every  limb;  his  eyes 
shunned  his  master's  as  his  master's  had  shunned 
Garnache's  awhile  ago.  The  Seneschal  was  enjoying 
himself.  If  he  had  been  bullied  and  browbeaten,  here, 
at  least,  was  one  upon  whom  he,  in  his  turn,  might 
taste  the  joys  of  bullying  and  browbeating. 

"You  lazy,  miserable  calf,"  he  stormed,  "I  might 
be  better  served  by  a  wooden  image.  Go!  It  seems  I 
must  rely  upon  myself.  It  is  always  so.  Wait!"  he 
thundered;  for  the  secretary,  only  too  glad  to  obey 
his  last  order,  had  already  reached  the  door.  "Tell 
Anselme  to  bid  the  Captain  attend  me  here  at  once." 

Babylas  bowed  and  went  his  errand. 

A  certain  amount  of  his  ill-humour  vented,  Tressan 
made  an  effort  to  regain  his  self-control.  He  passed 
his  handkerchief  for  the  last  time  over  face  and  head, 
and  resumed  his  wig. 

When  d'Aubran  entered,  the  Seneschal  was  com- 
posed and  in  his  wonted  habit  of  ponderous  dignity. 
"Ah,  d'Aubran,"  said  he,  "your  men  are  ready?" 

"They  have  been  ready  these  four-and-twenty 
hours,  monsieur." 

"Good.  You  are  a  brisk  soldier,  d'Aubran.  You 
are  a  man  to  be  relied  upon." 

D'Aubran  bowed.  He  was  a  tall,  active  young  fel- 
low with  a  pleasant  face  and  a  pair  of  fine  black 
eyes. 

"Monsieur  le  Seneschal  is  very  good." 


SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


With  a  wave  of  the  hand  the  Seneschal  belittled  his 
own  goodness. 

"You  will  march  out  of  Grenoble  within  the  hour, 
Captain,  and  you  will  lead  your  men  to  Montelimar. 
There  you  will  quarter  them,  and  await  my  further 
orders.  Babylas  will  give  you  a  letter  to  the  au- 
thorities, charging  them  to  find  you  suitable  quarters. 
While  there,  d'Aubran,  and  until  my  further  orders 
reach  you,  you  will  employ  your  time  in  probing  the 
feeling  in  the  hill  district.  You  understand?" 

"Imperfectly,"  d'Aubran  confessed. 

"You  will  understand  better  when  you  have  been 
in  Montelimar  a  week  or  so.  It  may,  of  course,  be  a 
false  alarm.  Still,  we  must  safeguard  the  King's  inter- 
ests and  be  prepared.  Perhaps  we  may  afterwards  be 
charged  with  starting  at  shadows;  but  it  is  better  to 
be  on  the  alert  from  the  moment  the  shadow  is  per- 
ceived than  to  wait  until  the  substance  itself  has  over- 
whelmed us." 

It  sounded  so  very  much  as  if  the  Seneschal's  words 
really  had  some  hidden  meaning,  that  d'Aubran,  if 
not  content  with  going  upon  an  errand  of  which  he 
knew  so  little,  was,  at  least,  reconciled  to  obey  the 
orders  he  received.  He  uttered  words  that  conveyed 
some  such  idea  to  Tressan's  mind,  and  within  a  half- 
hour  he  was  marching  out  of  Grenoble  with  beating 
drums,  on  his  two  days'  journey  to  Montelimar. 


CHAPTER  IV 


THE  CHATEAU  DE  CONDILLAC 

AS  Captain  d'Aubran  and  his  troop  were  speeding 
XJl  westwards  from  Grenoble,  Monsieur  de  Gar- 
nache,  ever  attended  by  his  man,  rode  briskly  in  the 
opposite  direction,  towards  the  grey  towers  of  Con- 
dillac,  that  reared  themselves  towards  the  greyer  sky 
above  the  valley  of  the  Isere.  It  was  a  chill,  dull, 
autumnal  day,  with  a  raw  wind  blowing  from  the 
Alps;  its  breath  was  damp,  and  foretold  of  the  rain 
that  was  likely  to  come  anon,  the  rain  with  which  the 
clouds  hanging  low  about  the  distant  hills  were  preg- 
nant. 

But  Monsieur  de  Garnache  was  totally  insensible 
to  his  surroundings;  his  mind  was  very  busy  with  the 
interview  from  which  he  had  come,  and  the  interview 
to  which  he  was  speeding.  Once  he  permitted  him- 
self a  digression,  that  he  might  point  a  moral  for  the 
benefit  of  his  servant. 

"You  see,  Rabecque,  what  a  plague  it  is  to  have  to 
do  with  women.  Are  you  sufficiently  grateful  to  me 
for  having  quelled  your  matrimonial  ardour  of  two 
months  ago?  No,  you  are  not.  Grateful  you  may  be; 
sufficiently  grateful,  never;  it  would  be  impossible. 
No  gratitude  could  be  commensurate  with  the  bene- 
fit I  conferred  upon  you.  Yet  if  you  had  married,  and 
discovered  for  yourself  the  troubles  that  come  from 
too  close  an  association  with  that  sex  which  some  wag 
of  old  ironically  called  the  weaker,  and  of  which  con- 
temporary fools  with  no  sense  of  irony  continue  so 


46  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


to  speak  in  good  faith,  you  could  have  blamed  only 
yourself.  You  would  have  shrugged  your  shoulders 
and  made  the  best  of  it,  realizing  that  no  other  man 
had  put  this  wrong  upon  you.  But  with  me  —  thou- 
sand devils !  —  it  is  very  different.  I  am  a  man  who, 
in  one  particular  at  least,  has  chosen  his  way  of  life 
with  care;  I  have  seen  to  it  that  I  should  walk  a  road 
unencumbered  by  any  petticoat.  What  happens? 
What  comes  of  all  my  careful  plans  ? 

"Fate  sends  an  infernal  cut-throat  to  murder  our 
good  king  —  whose  soul  God  rest  eternally!  And 
since  his  son  is  of  an  age  too  tender  to  wield  the 
sceptre,  the  boy's  mother  does  it  in  his  name.  Thus, 
I,  a  soldier,  being  subject  to  the  head  of  the  State, 
find  myself,  by  no  devising  of  my  own,  subject  to  a 
woman. 

"  In  itself  that  is  bad  enough.  Too  bad,  indeed  — 
Ventregris!  —  too  bad.  Yet  Fate  is  not  content.  It 
must  occur  to  this  woman  to  select  me  —  me  of  all 
men  —  to  journey  into  Dauphiny,  and  release  an- 
other woman  from  the  clutches  of  yet  a  third.  And  to 
what  shifts  are  we  not  put,  to  what  discomforts  not 
subjected?  You  know  them,  Rabecque,  for  you  have 
shared  them  with  me.  But  it  begins  to  break  upon 
my  mind  that  what  we  have  endured  may  be  as  noth- 
ing to  what  may  lie  before  us.  It  is  an  ill  thing  to  have 
to  do  with  women.  Yet  you,  Rabecque,  would  have 
deserted  me  for  one  of  them!" 

Rabecque  was  silent.  Maybe  he  was  ashamed  of 
himself;  or  maybe  that,  not  agreeing  with  his  master, 
he  had  yet  sufficient  appreciation  of  his  position  to  be 
discreetly  silent  where  his  opinions  might  be  at  vari- 
ance. Thus  Garnache  was  encouraged  to  continue. 


THE  CHATEAU  DE  CONDILLAC  47 


"And  what  is  all  this  trouble  about,  which  they 
have  sent  me  to  set  right?  About  a  marriage.  There 
is  a  girl  wants  to  marry  one  man,  and  a  woman  who 
wants  to  marry  her  to  another.  Ponder  the  possi- 
bilities of  tragedy  in  such  a  situation.  Half  this 
world's  upheavals  have  had  their  source  in  less.  Yet 
you,  Rabecque,  would  have  married!" 

Necessity  at  last  turned  his  discourse  to  other 
matters. 

"Tell  me,  now,"  said  he  abruptly,  in  a  different 
tone,  "is  there  hereabouts  a  ford?" 

"There  is  a  bridge  up  yonder,  monsieur,"  re- 
turned the  servant,  thankful  to  have  the  conversa- 
tion changed. 

They  rode  towards  it  in  silence,  Garnache's  eyes  set 
now  upon  the  grey  pile  that  crowned  the  hillock,  a 
half-mile  away,  on  the  opposite  bank  of  the  stream. 
They  crossed  the  bridge  and  rode  up  the  gently  rising, 
bare,  and  rugged  ground  towards  Condillac.  The 
place  wore  an  entirely  peaceful  air,  strong  and  mas- 
sive though  it  appeared.  It  was  encircled  by  a  ditch, 
but  the  drawbridge  was  down,  and  the  rust  on  its 
chains  argued  that  long  had  it  been  so. 

None  coming  to  challenge  them,  the  pair  rode 
across  the  planks,  and  the  dull  thud  of  their  hooves 
started  into  activity  some  one  in  the  gatehouse. 

A  fellow  rudely  clad  —  a  hybrid  between  man-at- 
arms  and  lackey  —  lounged  on  a  musket  to  confront 
them  in  the  gateway.  Monsieur  de  Garnache  an- 
nounced his  name,  adding  that  he  came  to  crave  an 
audience  of  Madame  la  Marquise,  and  the  man  stood 
aside  to  admit  him.  Thus  he  and  Rabecque  rode  for- 
ward into  the  roughly  paved  courtyard. 


48  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


From  several  doorways  other  men  emerged,  some 
of  martial  bearing,  showing  that  the  place  was  garri- 
soned to  some  extent.  Garnache  took  little  heed  of 
them.  He  flung  his  reins  to  the  man  whom  he  had 
first  addressed  —  the  fellow  had  kept  pace  beside  him 

—  and  leapt  nimbly  to  the  ground,  bidding  Rabecque 
await  him  there. 

The  soldier  lackey  resigned  the  reins  to  Rabecque, 
and  requested  Monsieur  de  Garnache  to  follow  him. 
He  led  the  way  through  a  door  on  the  left,  down  a 
passage  and  across  an  anteroom,  and  ushered  the 
visitor  finally  into  a  spacious,  gloomy  hall,  panelled  in 
black  oak  and  lighted  as  much  by  the  piled-up  fire 
that  flared  on  the  noble  hearth  as  by  the  grey  day- 
light that  filtered  through  the  tall  mullioned  win- 
dows. 

As  they  entered,  a  liver-coloured  hound  that  lay 
stretched  before  the  fire  growled  lazily,  and  showed 
the  whites  of  his  eyes.  Paying  little  attention  to  the 
dog,  Garnache  looked  about  him.  The  apartment 
was  handsome  beyond  praise,  in  a  sombre,  noble  fash- 
ion. It  was  hung  with  pictures  of  departed  Condillacs 

—  some  of  them  rudely  wrought  enough  —  with  tro- 
phies of  ancient  armour,  and  with  implements  of 
the  chase.  In  the  centre  stood  an  oblong  table  of 
black  oak,  very  richly  carved  about  its  massive  legs, 
and  in  a  china  bowl,  on  this,  an  armful  of  late  roses 
filled  the  room  with  their  sweet  fragrance. 

Then  Garnache  espied  a  page  on  the  window-seat, 
industriously  burnishing  a  cuirass.  He  pursued  his 
task,  indifferent  to  the  newcomer's  advent,  until  the 
knave  who  had  conducted  thither  the  Parisian  called 
the  boy  and  bade  him  go  tell  the  Marquise  that  a 


THE  CHATEAU  DE  CONDILLAC 


Monsieur  de  Garnache,  with  a  message  from  the 
Queen-Regent,  begged  an  audience. 

The  boy  rose,  and  simultaneously,  out  of  a  great 
chair  by  the  hearth,  whose  tall  back  had  hitherto 
concealed  him,  there  rose  another  figure.  This  was  a 
stripling  of  some  twenty  summers  —  twenty-one,  in 
fact  —  of  a  pale,  beautifully  featured  face,  black  hair 
and  fine  black  eyes,  and  very  sumptuously  clad  in  a 
suit  of  shimmering  silk  whose  colour  shifted  from 
green  to  purple  as  he  moved. 

Monsieur  de  Garnache  assumed  that  he  was  in  the 
presence  of  Marius  de  Condillac.  He  bowed  a  trifle 
stiffly,  and  was  surprised  to  have  his  bow  returned 
with  a  graciousness  that  amounted  almost  to  cordial- 
ity. 

"You  are  from  Paris,  monsieur?"  said  the  young 
man,  in  a  gentle,  pleasant  voice.  "  I  fear  you  have  had 
indifferent  weather  for  your  journey." 

Garnache  thought  of  other  things  besides  the 
weather  that  he  had  found  indifferent,  and  he  felt 
warmed  almost  to  the  point  of  anger  at  the  very  recol- 
lection. But  he  bowed  again,  and  answered  amiably 
enough. 

The  young  man  offered  him  a  seat,  assuring  him 
that  his  mother  would  not  keep  him  waiting  long. 
The  page  had  already  gone  upon  his  errand. 

Garnache  took  the  proffered  chair,  and  sank  down 
with  creak  and  jingle  to  warm  himself  at  the  fire. 

"From  what  you  have  said,  I  gather  that  you  are 
Monsieur  Marius  de  Condillac,"  said  he.  "I,  as  you 
may  have  heard  me  announced  by  your  servant, 
am  Martin  Marie  Rigobert  de  Garnache  —  at  your 
service." 


50  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


"We  have  heard  of  you,  Monsieur  de  Garnache," 
said  the  youth  as  he  crossed  his  shapely  legs  of  silken 
violet,  and  fingered  the  great  pearl  that  depended 
from  his  ear.  "But  we  had  thought  that  by  now  you 
would  be  on  your  way  to  Paris." 

"No  doubt  —  with  Margot,"  was  the  grim  re- 
joinder. 

But  Marius  either  gathered  no  suggestion  from  its 
grimness,  or  did  not  know  the  name  Garnache  ut- 
tered, for  he  continued: 

"We  understood  that  you  were  to  escort  Mademoi- 
selle de  La  Vauvraye  to  Paris,  to  place  her  under  the 
tutelage  of  the  Queen-Regent.  I  will  not  conceal 
from  you  that  we  were  chagrined  at  the  reflection  cast 
upon  Condillac;  nevertheless,  Her  Majesty's  word  is 
law  in  Dauphiny  as  much  as  it  is  in  Paris." 

"Quite  as  much,  and  I  am  relieved  to  hear  you  con- 
fess it,"  said  Garnache  drily,  and  he  scanned  more 
closely  the  face  of  this  young  man.  He  found  cause  to 
modify  the  excellent  impression  he  had  received  at 
first.  Marius's  eyebrows  were  finely  pencilled,  but 
they  arched  a  shade  too  much,  and  his  eyes  were  set  a 
trifle  too  closely;  the  mouth,  which  had  seemed  beau- 
tiful at  first,  looked,  in  addition,  on  this  closer  inspec- 
tion, weak,  sensual,  and  cruel. 

There  fell  upon  the  momentary  silence  the  sound  of 
an  opening  door,  and  both  men  rose  simultaneously 
to  their  feet. 

In  the  splendid  woman  that  entered,  Monsieur  de 
Garnache  saw  a  wonderful  likeness  to  the  boy  who 
stood  beside  him.  She  received  the  emissary  very 
graciously.  Marius  set  a  chair  for  her  between  the 
two  they  had  been  occupying,  and  thus  interchanging 


THE  CHATEAU  DE  CONDILLAC  51 


phrases  of  agreeable  greeting  the  three  sat  down  about 
the  hearth  with  every  show  of  the  greatest  amity. 

A  younger  man  might  have  been  put  out  of  counte- 
nance; the  woman's  surpassing  beauty,  her  charm  of 
manner,  her  melodious  voice,  falling  on  the  ear  soft 
and  gentle  as  a  caress,  might  have  turned  a  man  of 
less  firmness  a  little  from  his  purpose,  a  little  perhaps 
from  his  loyalty  and  the  duty  that  had  brought  him 
all  the  way  from  Paris.  But  Monsieur  de  Garnache 
was  to  her  thousand  graces  as  insensible  as  a  man  of 
stone.  And  he  came  to  business  briskly.  He  had  no 
mind  to  spend  the  day  at  her  fireside  in  pleasant, 
meaningless  talk. 

"Madame,"  said  he,  "monsieur  your  son  informs 
me  that  you  have  heard  of  me  and  of  the  business  that 
brings  me  into  Dauphiny.  I  had  not  looked  for  the 
honour  of  journeying  quite  so  far  as  Condillac;  but 
since  Monsieur  de  Tressan,  whom  I  made  my  ambas- 
sador, appears  to  have  failed  so  signally,  I  am  con- 
strained to  inflict  my  presence  upon  you." 

"Inflict?"  quoth  she,  with  a  pretty  look  of  make- 
believe  dismay.  "How  harsh  a  word,  monsieur!" 

The  smoothness  of  the  implied  compliment  an- 
noyed him. 

"I  will  use  any  word  you  think  more  adequate, 
madame,  if  you  will  suggest  it,"  he  answered  tartly. 

"There  are  a  dozen  I  might  suggest  that  would  bet- 
ter fit  the  case  —  and  with  more  justice  to  yourself," 
she  answered,  with  a  smile  that  revealed  a  gleam  of 
white  teeth  behind  her  scarlet  lips.  "Marius,  bid 
Benoit  bring  wine.  Monsieur  de  Garnache  will  no 
doubt  be  thirsting  after  his  ride." 

Garnache  said  nothing.  Acknowledge  the  courtesy 


52  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


he  would  not;  refuse  it  he  could  not.  So  he  sat,  and 
waited  for  her  to  speak,  his  eyes  upon  the  fire. 

Madame  had  already  set  herself  a  course.  Keener- 
witted  than  her  son,  she  had  readily  understood,  upon 
Garnache's  being  announced  to  her,  that  his  visit 
meant  the  failure  of  the  imposture  by  which  she  had 
sought  to  be  rid  of  him. 

"I  think,  monsieur,"  she  said  presently,  watching 
him  from  under  her  lids,  "  that  we  have,  all  of  us  who 
are  concerned  in  Mademoiselle  de  La  Vauvraye's 
affairs,  been  at  cross-purposes.  She  is  an  impetuous, 
impulsive  child,  and  it  happened  that  some  little  time 
ago  we  had  words  —  such  things  will  happen  in  the 
most  united  families.  Whilst  the  heat  of  her  foolish 
anger  was  upon  her,  she  wrote  a  letter  to  the  Queen, 
in  which  she  desired  to  be  removed  from  my  tutelage. 
Since  then,  monsieur,  she  has  come  to  repent  her  of  it. 
You,  who  no  doubt  understand  a  woman's  mind  — " 

"Set  out  upon  no  such  presumption,  madame,"  he 
interrupted.  "I  know  as  little  of  a  woman's  mind  as 
any  man  who  thinks  he  knows  a  deal  —  and  that  is 
nothing." 

She  laughed  as  at  an  excellent  jest,  and  Marius, 
overhearing  Garnache's  retort  as  he  was  returning  to 
resume  his  seat,  joined  in  her  laugh. 

"Paris  is  a  fine  whetstone  for  a  man's  wits,"  said 
he. 

Garnache  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  take  it,  madame,  that  you  wish  me  to  under- 
stand that  Mademoiselle  de  La  Vauvraye,  repenting 
of  her  letter,  desires  no  longer  to  repair  to  Paris;  de- 
sires, in  fact,  to  remain  here  at  Condillac  in  your  ex- 
cellent care." 


THE  CHATEAU  DE  CONDILLAC 


"You  apprehend  the  position  exactly,  monsieur." 

"To  my  mind,"  said  he,  "it  presents  few  features 
difficult  of  apprehension." 

Marius's  eyes  flashed  his  mother  a  look  of  relief; 
but  the  Marquise,  who  had  an  ear  more  finely  trained, 
caught  the  vibration  of  a  second  meaning  in  the 
emissary's  words. 

"All  being  as  you  say,  madame,"  he  continued, 
"will  you  tell  me  why,  instead  of  some  message  to 
this  purport,  you  sent  Monsieur  de  Tressan  back  to 
me  with  a  girl  taken  from  some  kitchen  or  barnyard, 
whom  it  was  sought  to  pass  off  upon  me  as  Mademoi- 
selle de  La  Vauvraye?" 

The  Marquise  laughed,  and  her  son,  who  had 
shown  signs  of  perturbation,  taking  his  cue  from  her, 
laughed  too. 

"It  was  a  jest,  monsieur"  —  she  told  him,  miser- 
ably conscious  that  the  explanation  could  sound  no 
lamer. 

"My  compliments,  madame,  upon  the  humour  that 
prevails  in  Dauphiny.  But  your  jest  failed  of  its  pur- 
pose. It  did  not  amuse  me,  nor,  so  far  as  I  could  dis- 
cern, was  Monsieur  de  Tressan  greatly  taken  with  it. 
But  all  this  is  of  little  moment,  madame,"  he  con- 
tinued. "Since  you  tell  me  that  Mademoiselle  de  La 
Vauvraye  is  content  to  remain  here,  I  am  satisfied 
that  it  is  so." 

They  were  the  very  words  that  she  desired  to  hear 
from  him;  yet  his  manner  of  uttering  them  gave  her 
little  reassurance.  The  smile  on  her  lips  was  forced; 
her  watchful  eyes  smiled  not  at  all. 

"Still,"  he  continued,  "you  will  be  so  good  as  to 
remember  that  I  am  not  my  own  master  in  this  affair. 


SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


Were  that  so,  I  should  not  fail  to  relieve  you  at  once 
of  my  unbidden  presence." 
"Oh,  monsieur — " 

"But,  being  the  Queen's  emissary,  I  have  her  or- 
ders to  obey,  and  those  orders  are  to  convey  Made- 
moiselle de  La  Vauvraye  to  Paris.  They  make  no 
allowance  for  any  change  that  may  have  occurred  in 
mademoiselle's  inclinations.  If  the  journey  is  now 
distasteful  to  her,  she  has  but  her  own  rashness  to 
blame  in  having  sought  it  herself.  What  imports  is 
that  she  is  bidden  by  the  Queen  to  repair  to  Paris;  as 
a  loyal  subject  she  must  obey  the  Queen's  commands; 
you,  as  a  loyal  subject,  must  see  to  it  that  she  obeys 
them.  So,  madame,  I  count  upon  your  influence  with 
mademoiselle  to  see  that  she  is  ready  to  set  out  by 
noon  to-morrow.  One  day  already  has  been  wasted 
me  by  your  —  ah  — jest,  madame.  The  Queen  likes 
her  ambassadors  to  be  brisk." 

The  Dowager  reclined  in  her  chair,  and  bit  her  lip. 
This  man  was  too  keen  for  her.  She  had  no  illusions. 
He  had  seen  through  her  as  if  she  had  been  made  of 
glass;  he  had  penetrated  her  artifices  and  detected  her 
falsehoods.  Yet  feigning  to  believe  her  and  them,  he 
had  first  neutralized  her  only  weapons  —  other  than 
offensive  —  then  used  them  for  her  own  defeat. 
Marius  it  was  who  took  up  the  conversation. 

"Monsieur,"  he  cried  —  and  there  was  a  frown 
drawing  together  his  fine  brows  —  "what  you  suggest 
amounts  to  a  tyranny  on  the  Queen's  part." 

Garnache  was  on  his  feet,  his  chair  grating  the  pol- 
ished floor. 

"Monsieur  says?"  quoth  he,  his  glittering  eye  chal- 
lenging the  rash  boy  to  repeat  his  words. 


THE  CHATEAU  DE  CONDILLAC  55 


But  the  Dowager  intervened  with  a  little  trill  of 
laughter. 

" Bon  Dieu!  Marius,  what  are  you  saying?  Foolish 
boy!  And  you,  Monsieur  de  Garnache,  do  not  heed 
him,  I  beg  you.  We  are  so  far  from  Court  in  this  little 
corner  of  Dauphiny,  and  my  son  has  been  reared  in 
so  free  an  atmosphere  that  he  is  sometimes  betrayed 
into  expressions  whose  impropriety  he  does  not  real- 
ize." 

Garnache  bowed  in  token  of  his  perfect  satisfac- 
tion, and  at  that  moment  two  servants  entered  bear- 
ing flagons  and  beakers,  fruits  and  sweetmeats,  which 
they  placed  upon  the  table.  The  Dowager  rose,  and 
went  to  do  the  honours  of  the  board.  The  servants 
withdrew. 

"You  will  taste  our  wine  of  Condillac,  monsieur?" 

He  acquiesced,  expressing  thanks,  and  watched  her 
fill  a  beaker  for  him,  one  for  herself,  and  another  for 
her  son.  She  brought  him  the  cup  in  her  hands.  He 
took  it  with  a  grave  inclination  of  the  head.  Then  she 
proffered  him  the  sweetmeats.  To  take  one,  he  set 
down  the  cup  on  the  table,  by  which  he  had  also  come 
to  stand.  His  left  hand  was  gloved  and  held  his 
beaver  and  whip. 

She  nibbled,  herself,  at  one  of  the  comfits,  and  he  , 
followed  her  example.  The  boy,  a  trifle  sullen  since 
the  last  words,  stood  on  the  hearth  with  his  back  to 
the  fire,  his  hands  clasped  behind  him. 

"Monsieur,"  she  said,  "do  you  think  it  would  en- 
able you  to  comply  with  what  I  have  signified  to  be 
not  only  our  own  wishes,  but  those  of  Mademoiselle 
de  La  Vauvraye  herself,  if  she  were  to  state  them  to 
you?" 


56  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


He  looked  up  sharply,  his  lips  parting  in  a  smile 
that  revealed  his  strong  white  teeth. 

"Are  you  proposing  another  of  your  jests,  ma- 
dame?" 

She  laughed  outright.  A  wonderful  assurance  was 
hers,  thought  Monsieur  de  Garnache.  "  Mon  Dieuf 
no,  monsieur,"  she  cried.  "If  you  will,  you  may  see 
the  lady  herself." 

He  took  a  turn  in  the  apartment,  idly,  as  does  a 
man  in  thought. 

"Very  well,"  said  he,  at  last.  "I  do  not  say  that  it 
will  alter  my  determination.  But  perhaps  —  yes,  I 
should  be  glad  of  an  opportunity  of  the  honour  of 
making  Mademoiselle  de  La  Vauvraye's  acquaint- 
ance. But  no  impersonations,  I  beg,  madame!"  He- 
said  it  half-laughingly,  taking  his  cue  from  her. 

"You  need  have  no  fear  of  any." 

She  walked  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and  called  — 
"  Gaston ! "  In  answer  came  the  page  whom  Garnache 
had  found  in  the  room  when  he  was  admitted. 

"Desire  Mademoiselle  de  La  Vauvraye  to  come  to 
us  here  at  once,"  she  bade  the  boy,  and  closed  the 
door. 

Garnache  had  been  all  eyes  for  some  furtive  sign, 
some  whispered  word;  but  he  had  surprised  neither. 

His  pacing  had  brought  him  to  the  opposite  end  of 
the  board,  where  stood  the  cup  of  wine  madame  had 
poured  for  Marius.  His  own,  Garnache  had  left  un- 
touched. As  if  abstractedly,  he  now  took  up  the 
beaker,  pledged  madame  with  his  glance,  and  drank. 
She  watched  him,  and  suddenly  a  suspicion  darted 
through  her  mind  —  a  suspicion  that  he  suspected 
them. 


THE  CHATEAU  DE  CONDILLAC  57 


Dieu!  What  a  man  was  this !  He  took  no  chances. 
Madame  reflected  that  this  augured  ill  for  the  success 
of  the  last  resource  upon  which,  should  all  else  fail, 
she  was  counting  to  keep  mademoiselle  at  Condillac. 
It  seemed  incredible  that  one  so  wary  and  watchful 
should  have  committed  the  rashness  of  venturing 
alone  into  Condillac  without  taking  his  precautions 
to  ensure  his  ability  to  retreat. 

In  her  heart  she  felt  daunted  by  him.  But  in  the 
matter  of  that  wine  —  the  faintest  of  smiles  hovered 
on  her  lips,  her  eyebrows  went  up  a  shade.  Then  she 
took  up  the  cup  that  had  been  poured  for  the  Parisian, 
and  bore  it  to  her  son. 

"Marius,  you  are  not  drinking,"  said  she.  And  see- 
ing a  command  in  her  eyes,  he  took  the  beaker  from 
her  hand  and  bore  it  to  his  lips,  emptying  the  half  of 
it,  whilst  with  the  faintest  smile  of  scorn  the  Dowager 
swept  Garnache  a  glance  of  protest,  as  of  one  repudi- 
ating an  unworthy  challenge. 

Then  the  door  opened,  and  the  eyes  of  all  three 
were  centred  upon  the  girl  that  entered. 


CHAPTER  V 


MONSIEUR  DE  GARNACHE  LOSES  HIS  TEMPER 

YOU  sent  for  me,  madame,"  said  the  girl,  seeming 
to  hesitate  upon  the  threshold  of  the  room,  and 
her  voice  —  a  pleasant,  boyish  contralto  —  was  very- 
cold  and  conveyed  a  suggestion  of  disdain. 

The  Marquise  detected  that  inauspicious  note,  and 
was  moved  by  it  to  regret  her  already  of  having  em- 
barked upon  so  bold  a  game  as  to  confront  Monsieur 
de  Garnache  with  Valerie.  It  was  a  step  she  had  de- 
cided upon  as  a  last  means  of  convincing  the  Parisian 
of  the  truth  of  her  statement  touching  the  change 
that  had  taken  place  in  mademoiselle's  inclinations. 
And  she  had  provided  for  it  as  soon  as  she  heard  of 
Garnache's  arrival  by  informing  mademoiselle  that 
should  she  be  sent  for,  she  must  tell  the  gentleman 
from  Paris  that  it  was  her  wish  to  remain  at  Con- 
dillac.  Mademoiselle  had  incontinently  refused, 
and  madame,  to  win  her  compliance,  had  resorted  to 
threats. 

"You  will  do  as  you  consider  best,  of  course,"  she 
had  said,  in  a  voice  that  was  ominously  sweet.  "But 
I  promise  you  that  if  you  do  otherwise  than  as  I  tell 
you,  you  shall  be  married  before  sunset  to  Marius, 
whether  you  be  willing  or  not.  Monsieur  de  Garnache 
comes  alone,  and  if  I  so  will  it  alone  he  shall  depart  — 
or  not  at  all.  I  have  men  enough  at  Condillac  to  see 
my  orders  carried  out,  no  matter  what  they  be. 

"You  may  tell  yourself  that  this  fellow  will  return 


GARNACHE  LOSES  HIS  TEMPER 


59 


to  help  you.  Perhaps  he  will;  but  when  he  does,  it 
will  be  too  late  so  far  as  you  shall  be  concerned." 

Terrified  by  that  threat,  Valerie  had  blenched,  and 
had  felt  her  spirit  deserting  her. 

"And  if  I  comply,  madame?"  she  had  asked.  "If 
I  do  as  you  wish,  if  I  tell  this  gentleman  that  I  no 
longer  desne  to  go  to  Paris  —  what  then?" 

The  Dowager's  manner  had  become  more  affec- 
tionate. She  had  patted  the  shrinking  girl  upon  the 
shoulder.  "In  that  case,  Valerie,  you  shall  suffer 
no  constraint;  you  shall  continue  here  as  you  have 
done." 

"And  has  there  been  no  constraint  hitherto?"  had 
been  the  girl's  indignant  rejoinder. 

"Hardly,  child,"  the  Dowager  had  returned.  "We 
have  sought  to  guide  you  to  a  wise  choice  —  no  more 
than  that.  Nor  shall  we  do  more  hereafter  if  you  do 
my  pleasure  now  and  give  this  Monsieur  de  Garnache 
the  answer  that  I  bid  you.  But  if  you  fail  me,  re- 
member —  you  marry  Marius  before  nightfall." 

She  had  not  waited  for  the  girl  to  promise  her  com- 
pliance. She  was  too  clever  a  woman  to  show  anxiety 
on  that  score.  She  left  her  with  that  threat  vibrating 
in  her  mind,  confident  that  she  would  scare  the  girl 
into  obedience  by  the  very  assurance  she  exhibited 
that  Valerie  would  not  dare  to  disobey. 

But  now,  at  the  sound  of  that  chill  voice,  at  the 
sight  of  that  calm,  resolved  countenance,  madame 
was  regretting  that  she  had  not  stayed  to  receive  the 
girl's  promise  before  she  made  so  very  sure  of  her 
pliability. 

She  glanced  anxiously  at  Garnache.  His  eyes  were 
upon  the  girl.  He  was  remarking  the  slender,  supple 


6o  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


figure,  moderately  tall  and  looking  taller  in  its  black 
gown  of  mourning;  the  oval  face,  a  trifle  pale  now 
from  the  agitation  that  stirred  her,  with  its  fine  level 
brows,  its  clear,  hazel  eyes,  and  its  crown  of  lustrous 
brown  hair  rolled  back  under  the  daintiest  of  white 
coifs.  His  glance  dwelt  appreciatively  on  the  slender 
nose,  with  its  delicate  nostrils,  the  charming  line  of 
mouth  and  chin,  the  dazzling  whiteness  of  her  skin, 
conspicuous  not  only  in  neck  and  face  but  in  the  long, 
slender  hands  that  were  clasped  before  her. 

These  signs  of  breeding,  everywhere  proclaimed, 
left  him  content  that  here  was  no  imposture;  the  girl 
before  him  was,  indeed,  Valerie  de  La  Vauvraye. 

At  madame's  invitation  she  came  forward.  Marius 
hastened  to  close  the  door  and  to  set  a  chair  for  her, 
his  manner  an  admirable  suggestion  of  ardour  re- 
strained by  deference. 

She  sat  down  with  an  outward  calm  under  which 
none  would  have  suspected  the  full  extent  of  her  agi- 
tation, and  she  bent  her  eyes  upon  the  man  whom  the 
Queen  had  sent  for  her  deliverance. 

After  all,  Garnache's  appearance  was  hardly  sug- 
gestive of  the  role  of  Perseus  which  had  been  thrust 
upon  him.  She  saw  a  tall,  spare  man,  with  prominent 
cheek-bones,  a  gaunt,  high-bridged  nose,  very  fierce 
mustachios,  and  a  pair  of  eyes  that  were  as  keen  as 
sword-blades  and  felt  to  her  glance  as  penetrating. 
There  was  little  about  him  like  to  take  a  woman's 
fancy  or  claim  more  than  a  moderate  share  of  her 
attention,  even  when  circumstances  rendered  her  as 
interested  in  him  as  was  now  Mademoiselle  de  La 
Vauvraye. 

There  fell  a  silence,  broken  at  last  by  Marius,  who 


GARNACHE  LOSES  HIS  TEMPER  61 

leaned,  a  supple,  graceful  figure,  his  elbow  resting 
upon  the  summit  of  Valerie's  chair. 

"Monsieur  de  Garnache  does  us  the  injustice  to 
find  a  difficulty  in  believing  that  you  no  longer  wish 
to  leave  us." 

That  was  by  no  means  what  Garnache  had  implied; 
still,  since  it  really  expressed  his  mind,  he  did  not 
trouble  to  correct  Marius. 

Valerie  said  nothing,  but  her  eyes  travelled  to 
madame's  countenance,  where  she  found  a  frown. 
Garnache  observed  the  silence,  and  drew  his  own  con- 
clusions. 

"So  we  have  sent  for  you,  Valerie,"  said  the  Dow- 
ager, taking  up  her  son's  sentence,  "that  you  may 
yourself  assure  Monsieur  de  Garnache  that  it  is  so." 

Her  voice  was  stern;  it  bore  to  the  girl's  ears  a  sub- 
tle, unworded  repetition  of  the  threat  the  Marquise 
had  already  voiced.  Mademoiselle  caught  it,  and 
Garnache  caught  it  too,  although  he  failed  to  inter- 
pret it  as  precisely  as  he  would  have  liked. 

The  girl  seemed  to  experience  a  difficulty  in  an- 
swering. Her  eyes  roved  to  Garn ache's,  and  fell  away 
in  affright  before  their  glitter.  That  man's  glance 
seemed  to  read  her  very  mind,  she  thought;  and  sud- 
denly the  reflection  that  had  terrified  her  became  her 
hope.  If  it  were  as  she  deemed  it,  what  matter  what 
she  said?  He  would  know  the  truth,  in  spite  of  all. 

"Yes,  madame,"  she  said  at  last,  and  her  voice  was 
wholly  void  of  expression.  "Yes,  monsieur,  it  is  as 
madame  says.  It  is  my  wish  to  remain  at  Condillac." 

From  the  Dowager,  standing  a  pace  or  two  away 
from  Garnache,  came  the  sound  of  a  half-sigh.  Gar- 
nache missed  nothing.  He  caught  the  sound,  and  ac- 


62  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


cepted  it  as  an  expression  of  relief.  The  Marquise 
stepped  back  a  pace;  idly,  one  might  have  thought; 
not  so  thought  Garnache.  It  had  this  advantage: 
that  it  enabled  her  to  stand  where  he  might  not  watch 
her  face  without  turning  his  head.  He  was  content 
that  such  was  her  motive.  To  defeat  her  object,  to 
show  her  that  he  had  guessed  it,  he  stepped  back,  too, 
also  with  that  same  idleness  of  air,  so  that  he  was  once 
more  in  line  with  her.  And  then  he  spoke,  addressing 
Valerie. 

"Mademoiselle,  that  you  should  have  written  to 
the  Queen  in  haste  is  deplorable  now  that  your  views 
have  undergone  this  change.  I  am  a  stupid  man, 
mademoiselle,  just  a  blunt  soldier  with  orders  to  obey 
and  no  authority  to  think.  My  orders  are  to  conduct 
you  to  Paris.  Your  will  was  not  taken  into  considera- 
tion. I  know  not  how  the  Queen  would  have  me  act, 
seeing  your  reluctance;  it  may  be  that  she  would  elect 
to  leave  you  here,  as  you  desire.  But  it  is  not  for  me 
to  arrogate  to  determine  the  Queen's  mind.  I  can  but 
be  guided  by  her  orders,  and  those  orders  leave  me  no 
course  but  one  —  to  ask  you,  mademoiselle,  to  make 
ready  immediately  to  go  with  me." 

The  look  of  relief  that  swept  into  Valerie's  face,  the 
little  flush  of  colour  that  warmed  her  cheeks,  hitherto 
so  pale,  were  all  the  confirmation  that  he  needed  of 
what  he  suspected. 

"But,  monsieur,"  said  Marius,  "it  must  be  plain  to 
you  that  since  the  Queen's  orders  are  but  a  compli- 
ance with  mademoiselle's  wishes,  now  that  mademoi- 
selle's wishes  have  altered,  so  too  would  Her  Maj- 
esty's commands  alter  to  comply  with  them  once 
more." 


GARNACHE  LOSES  HIS  TEMPER 


63 


"That  may  be  plain  to  you,  monsieur;  for  me, 
unfortunately,  there  are  my  orders  for  only  guide," 
Garnache  persisted.  "Does  not  mademoiselle  herself 
agree  with  me?" 

She  was  about  to  speak;  her  glance  had  looked 
eager,  her  lips  had  parted.  Then,  of  a  sudden,  the 
little  colour  faded  from  her  cheeks  again,  and  she 
seemed  stricken  with  a  silence.  Garnache's  eyes, 
directed  in  a  sidelong  glance  to  the  Marquise's  face, 
surprised  there  a  frown  that  had  prompted  that  sud- 
den change. 

He  half-turned,  his  manner  changing  suddenly  to  a 
freezing  civility. 

"Madame  la  Marquise,"  said  he,  "I  beg  with  all 
deference  to  suggest  that  I  am  not  allowed  the  in- 
terview you  promised  me  with  Mademoiselle  de  La 
Vauvraye." 

The  ominous  coldness  with  which  he  had  begun  to 
speak  had  had  a  disturbing  effect  upon  the  Dowager; 
the  words  he  uttered,  when  she  had  weighed  them, 
brought  an  immense  relief.  It  seemed,  then,  that  he 
but  needed  convincing  that  this  was  Mademoiselle  de 
La  Vauvraye.  This  argued  that  for  the  rest  he  was 
satisfied. 

"There,  monsieur,  you  are  at  fault,"  she  cried,  and 
she  was  smiling  into  his  grave  eyes.  "Because  once  I 
put  that  jest  upon  you,  you  imagine  — " 

"No,  no,"  he  broke  in.  "  You  misapprehend  me.  I 
do  not  say  that  this  is  not  Mademoiselle  de  La  Vau- 
vraye; I  do  not  say  that — " 

He  paused;  he  was  at  the  end  of  his  resources.  He 
did  not  know  how  to  put  the  thing  without  giving 
offence,  and  it  had  been  his  resolve  —  realizing  the 


64  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


necessity  for  it  —  to  conduct  this  matter  with  a  grave 
courtesy. 

To  feel  that  after  having  carried  the  affair  so  far 
with  a  —  for  him  —  commendable  lightness  of  touch, 
he  should  be  at  a  loss  for  a  delicate  word  to  convey 
a  harsh  accusation  began  to  anger  him.  And  once 
Garnache  began  to  be  angered,  the  rest  followed 
quickly.  It  was  just  that  flaw  in  his  character  that 
had  been  the  ruin  of  him,  that  had  blighted  what 
otherwise  might  have  been  a  brilliant  career.  Astute 
and  wily  as  a  fox,  brave  as  a  lion,  and  active  as  a 
panther,  gifted  with  intelligence,  insight  and  resource, 
he  had  carried  a  dozen  enterprises  up  to  the  very 
threshold  of  success,  there  to  have  ruined  them  all  by 
giving  way  to  some  sudden  access  of  choler. 

So  was  it  now.  His  pause  was  but  momentary.  Yet 
in  that  moment,  from  calm  and  freezing  that  he  had 
been,  he  became  ruffled  and  hot.  The  change  was 
visible  in  his  heightened  colour,  in  his  flashing  eyes, 
and  in  his  twitching  mustachios.  For  just  a  second  he 
sought  to  smother  his  wrath;  he  had  a  glimmer  of  re- 
membrance of  the  need  for  caution  and  diplomacy  in 
the  darkness  of  anger  that  was  descending  over  him. 
Then,  without  further  warning,  he  exploded. 

His  nervous,  sinewy  hand  clenched  itself  and  fell 
with  a  crash  upon  the  table,  overturning  a  flagon  and 
sending  a  lake  of  wine  across  the  board,  to  trickle  over 
at  a  dozen  points  and  form  in  puddles  at  the  feet  of 
Valerie.  Startled,  they  all  watched  him,  mademoi- 
selle the  most  startled  of  the  three. 

"Madame,"  he  thundered,  "I  have  been  receiving 
dancing-lessons  at  your  hands  for  long  enough.  It  is 
time,  I  think,  we  did  a  little  ordinary  walking,  else 


GARNACHE  LOSES  HIS  TEMPER 


65 


shall  we  get  no  farther  along  the  road  I  mean  to  go  — 
and  that  is  the  road  to  Paris  with  mademoiselle  for 
company." 

"Monsieur,  monsieur!"  cried  the  startled  Mar- 
quise, placing  herself  intrepidly  before  him;  and 
Marius  trembled  for  her,  for  so  wild  did  the  man  seem 
that  he  almost  feared  he  might  strike  her. 

"Lhave  heard  enough,"  he  blazed.  "Not  another 
word  from  any  here  in  Condillac!  I'll  take  this  lady 
with  me  —  now,  at  once;  and  if  any  here  raises  a 
finger  to  resist  me,  as  Heaven  is  my  witness,  it  will  be 
the  last  resistance  he  will  ever  offer  any  man.  Let  a 
hand  be  laid  upon  me,  or  a  sword  bared  before  my 
eyes,  and  I  swear,  madame,  that  I'll  come  back  and 
burn  this  dunghill  of  rebellion  to  the  ground." 

In  the  blindness  of  his  passion  all  his  fine  keenness 
was  cast  to  the  wind,  his  all-observing  watchfulness 
was  smothered  in  the  cloud  of  anger  that  oppressed 
his  brain.  He  never  saw  the  sign  that  madame  made 
to  her  son,  never  so  much  as  noticed  Marius's  stealthy 
progress  towards  the  door. 

"Oh,"  he  continued,  a  satirical  note  running  now 
through  his  tempestuous  voice,  "it  is  a  fine  thing  to 
cozen  each  other  with  honeyed  words,  with  smirks 
and  with  grimaces.  But  we  have  done  with  that, 
madame."  He  towered  grimly  above  her,  shaking  a 
threatening  finger  in  her  very  face.  "We  have  done 
with  that.  We  shall  resort  to  deeds,  instead." 

"Aye,  monsieur,"  she  answered  very  coldly,  sneer- 
ing upon  his  red-hot  fury,  "there  shall  be  deeds 
enough  to  satisfy  even  your  outrageous  thirst  for 
them." 

That  cold,  sneering  voice,  with  its  note  of  threat, 


66  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


was  like  a  hand  of  ice  upon  his  overheated  brain.  It 
cooled  him  on  the  instant.  He  stiffened,  and  looked 
about  him.  He  saw  that  Marius  had  disappeared,  and 
that  mademoiselle  had  risen  and  was  regarding  him 
with  singularly  imploring  eyes. 

He  bit  his  lip  in  mortified  chagrin.  He  cursed  him- 
self inwardly  for  a  fool  and  a  dolt  —  the  more  pitiable 
because  he  accounted  himself  cunning  above  others. 
Had  he  but  kept  his  temper,  had  he  done  no  more 
than  maintain  the  happy  pretence  that  he  was  a  slave 
to  the  orders  he  had  received  —  a  mere  machine  —  he 
might  have  gained  his  ends  by  sheer  audacity.  At 
least,  his  way  of  retreat  would  have  remained  open, 
and  he  might  have  gone,  to  return  another  day  with 
force  at  his  heels. 

As  it  was,  that  pretty  whelp,  her  son,  had  been 
sent,  no  doubt,  for  men.  He  stepped  up  to  Valerie. 

"Are  you  ready,  mademoiselle?"  said  he;  for  little 
hope  though  he  might  still  have  of  winning  through, 
yet  he  must  do  the  best  to  repair  the  damage  that  was 
of  his  making. 

She  saw  that  the  storm  of  passion  had  passed,  and 
she  was  infected  by  the  sudden,  desperate  daring  that 
prompted  that  question  of  his. 

"I  am  ready,  monsieur,"  said  she,  and  her  boyish 
voice  had  an  intrepid  ring.  "I  will  come  with  you  as 
I  am." 

"Then,  in  God's  name,  let  us  be  going." 

They  moved  together  towards  the  door,  with  never 
another  glance  for  the  Dowager  where  she  stood, 
patting  the  head  of  the  hound  that  had  risen  and 
come  to  stand  beside  her.  In  silence  she  watched 
them,  a  sinister  smile  upon  her  beautiful,  ivory  face. 


GARNACHE  LOSES  HIS  TEMPER  67 


Then  came  a  sound  of  feet  and  voices  in  the  ante- 
room. The  door  was  flung  violently  open,  and  a  half- 
dozen  men  with  naked  swords  came  blundering  into 
the  room,  Marius  bringing  up  the  rear. 

With  a  cry  of  fear  Valerie  shrank  back  against  the 
panelled  wall,  her  little  hands  to  her  cheeks,  her  eyes 
dilating  with  alarm. 

Garnache's  sword  rasped  out,  an  oath  rattled  from 
his  clenched  teeth,  and  he  fell  on  guard.  The  men 
paused,  and  took  his  measure.  Marius  urged  them 
on,  as  if  they  had  been  a  pack  of  dogs. 

"At  him!"  he  snapped,  his  finger  pointing,  his 
handsome  eyes  flashing  angrily.  "Cut  him  down!" 

They  moved;  but  mademoiselle  moved  at  the  same 
moment.  She  sprang  before  them,  between  their 
swords  and  their  prey. 

"You  shall  not  do  it;  you  shall  not  do  it!"  she 
cried,  and  her  face  looked  drawn,  her  eyes  distraught. 
"  It  is  murder — murder,  you  curs ! "  And  the  memory 
of  how  that  dainty  little  lady  stood  undaunted  before 
so  much  bared  steel,  to  shield  him  from  those  assas- 
sins, was  one  that  abode  ever  after  with  Garnache. 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  he,  in  a  quiet  voice,  "if  you 
will  but  stand  aside  there  will  be  some  murder  done 
among  them  first." 

But  she  did  not  move.  Marius  clenched  his  hands, 
fretted  by  the  delay.  The  Dowager  looked  on  and 
smiled  and  patted  her  dog's  head.  To  her  mademoi- 
selle now  turned  in  appeal. 

"Madame,"  she  exclaimed,  "you'll  not  allow  it. 
You'll  not  let  them  do  this  thing.  Bid  them  put  up 
their  swords,  madame.  Bethink  you  that  Monsieur 
de  Garnache  is  here  in  the  Queen's  name." 


68  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


Too  well  did  madame  bethink  her  of  it.  Garnache 
need  not  plague  himself  with  vexation  that  his  rash 
temper  alone  had  wrought  his  ruin  now.  It  had  but 
accelerated  it.  It  was  just  possible,  perhaps,  that 
suavity  might  have  offered  him  opportunities;  but, 
for  the  rest,  from  the  moment  that  he  showed  himself 
firm  in  his  resolve  to  carry  mademoiselle  to  Paris,  his 
doom  was  sealed.  Madame  would  never  willingly 
have  allowed  him  to  leave  Condillac  alive,  for  she 
realized  that  did  she  do  so  he  would  stir  up  trouble 
enough  to  have  them  outlawed.  He  must  perish  here, 
and  be  forgotten.  If  questions  came  to  be  asked  later, 
Condillac  would  know  nothing  of  him. 

"Monsieur  de  Garnache  promised  us  some  fine 
deeds  on  his  own  account,"  she  mocked  him.  "We 
but  afford  him  the  opportunity  to  perform  them.  If 
these  be  not  enough  for  his  exceeding  valour,  there 
are  more  men  without  whom  we  can  summon." 

A  feeling  of  pity  for  mademoiselle  —  perhaps  of 
no  more  than  decency  —  now  overcame  Marius.  He 
stepped  forward. 

"Valerie,"  he  said,  "it  is  not  fitting  you  should  re- 
main." 

"Aye,  take  her  hence,"  the  Dowager  bade  him, 
with  a  smile.  "Her  presence  is  unmanning  our  fine 
Parisian." 

Eager  to  do  so,  over-eager,  Marius  came  forward, 
past  his  men-at-arms,  until  he  was  but  some  three 
paces  from  the  girl  and  just  out  of  reach  of  a  sudden 
dart  of  Garnache's  sword. 

Softly,  very  warily,  Garnache  slipped  his  right  foot 
a  little  farther  to  the  right.  Suddenly  he  threw  his 
weight  upon  it,  so  that  he  was  clear  of  the  girl.  Before 


GARNACHE  LOSES  HIS  TEMPER  69 

they  understood  what  he  was  about,  the  thing  had 
taken  place.  He  had  leaped  forward,  caught  the 
young  man  by  the  breast  of  his  shimmering  doublet, 
leaped  back  to  shelter  beyond  mademoiselle,  hurled 
Marius  to  the  ground,  and  planted  his  foot,  shod  as  it 
was  in  his  thickly  mudded  riding-boot,  full  upon  the 
boy's  long,  shapely  neck. 

"Move  so  much  as  a  finger,  my  pretty  fellow,"  he 
snapped  at  him,  "and  I'll  crush  the  life  from  you  as 
from  a  toad." 

There  was  a  sudden  forward  movement  on  the  part 
of  the  men;  but  if  Garnache  was  vicious,  he  was  calm. 
Were  he  again  to  lose  his  temper  now,  there  would  in- 
deed be  a  speedy  end  to  him.  That  much  he  knew, 
and  kept  repeating  to  himself,  lest  he  should  be 
tempted  to  forget  it. 

"Back!"  he  bade  them  in  a  voice  so  imperative 
that  they  stopped,  and  looked  on  with  gaping  mouths. 
"Back,  or  he  perishes!"  And  dropping  the  point  of 
his  sword,  he  lightly  rested  it  upon  the  young  man's 
breast. 

In  dismay  they  looked  to  the  Dowager  for  instruc- 
tion. She  craned  forward,  the  smile  gone  from  her 
lips,  a  horror  in  her  eyes,  her  bosom  heaving.  A  mo- 
ment ago  she  had  smiled  upon  mademoiselle's  out- 
ward signs  of  fear;  had  mademoiselle  been  so  minded, 
she  might  in  her  turn  have  smiled  now  at  the  terror 
written  large  upon  the  Dowager's  own  face.  But  her 
attention  was  all  absorbed  by  the  swiftly  executed  act 
by  which  Garnache  had  gained  at  least  a  temporary 
advantage. 

She  had  turned  and  looked  at  the  strange  spectacle 
of  that  dauntless  man,  erect,  his  foot  upon  Marius's 


SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


neck,  like  some  fantastic  figure  of  a  contemporary- 
Saint  George  and  a  contemporary  dragon.  She 
pressed  her  hands  tighter  upon  her  bosom;  her  eyes 
sparkled  with  an  odd  approval  of  that  brisk  deed. 

But  Garnache's  watchful  eyes  were  upon  the  Dow- 
ager. He  read  the  anxious  fear  that  marred  the 
beauty  of  her  face,  and  he  took  heart  at  the  sight,  for 
he  was  dependent  upon  the  extent  to  which  he  might 
work  upon  her  feelings. 

"You  smiled  just  now,  madame,  when  it  was  in- 
tended to  butcher  a  man  before  your  eyes.  You 
smile  no  longer,  I  observe,  at  this  the  first  of  the  fine 
deeds  I  promised  you." 

"Let  him  go,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  was  scarce 
louder  than  a  whisper,  horror-laden.  "Let  him  go, 
monsieur,  if  you  would  save  your  own  neck." 

"At  that  price,  yes  —  though,  believe  me,  you  are 
paying  too  much  for  so  poor  a  life  as  this.  Still,  you 
value  the  thing,  and  I  hold  it;  and  so  you'll  forgive  me 
if  I  am  extortionate." 

"Release  him,  and,  in  God's  name,  go  your  ways. 
None  shall  stay  you,"  she  promised  him. 

He  smiled.  "I'll  need  some  security  for  that.  I  do 
not  choose  to  take  your  word  for  it,  Madame  de  Con- 
dillac." 

"What  security  can  I  give  you?"  she  cried,  wring- 
ing her  hands,  her  eyes  on  the  boy's  ashen  face  — 
ashen  from  mingling  fear  and  rage  —  where  it  showed 
beyond  Garnache's  heavy  boot. 

"Bid  one  of  your  knaves  summon  my  servant.  I 
left  him  awaiting  me  in  the  courtyard." 

The  order  was  given,  and  one  of  the  cut-throats  de- 
parted. 


GARNACHE  LOSES  HIS  TEMPER 


In  a  tense  and  anxious  silence  they  awaited  his 
return,  though  he  kept  them  but  an  instant. 

Rabecque's  eyes  took  on  a  startled  look  when  he 
had  viewed  the  situation.  Garnache  called  to  him  to 
deprive  those  present  of  their  weapons. 

"And  let  none  refuse,  or  offer  him  violence,"  he 
added,  "or  your  master's  life  shall  pay  the  price  of 
it." 

The  Dowager  with  a  ready  anxiety  repeated  to 
them  his  commands.  Rabecque,  understanding  noth- 
ing, went  from  man  to  man,  and  received  from  each 
his  weapons.  He  placed  the  armful  on  the  window- 
seat,  at  the  far  end  of  the  apartment,  as  Garnache 
bade  him.  At  the  other  end  of  the  long  room,  Gar- 
nache ordered  the  disarmed  men  to  range  themselves. 
When  that  was  done,  the  Parisian  removed  his  foot 
from  his  victim's  neck. 

"Stand  up,"  he  commanded,  and  Marius  very 
readily  obeyed  him. 

Garnache  placed  himself  immediately  behind  the 
boy.  "Madame,"  said  he,  "no  harm  shall  come  to 
your  son  if  he  is  but  wise.  Let  him  disobey  me,  or  let 
any  man  in  Condillac  lift  a  hand  against  us,  and  that 
shall  be  the  signal  for  Monsieur  de  Condillac's  death. 
Mademoiselle,  it  is  your  wish  to  accompany  me  to 
Paris?" 

"Yes,  monsieur,"  she  answered  fearlessly,  her  eyes 
sparkling  now. 

"We  will  be  going  then.  Place  yourself  alongside  of 
Monsieur  de  Condillac.  Rabecque,  follow  me.  For- 
ward, Monsieur  de  Condillac.  You  will  be  so  good  as 
to  conduct  us  to  our  horses  in  the  courtyard." 

They  made  an  odd  procession  as  they  marched  out 


72  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


of  the  hall,  under  the  sullen  eyes  of  the  baulked  cut- 
throats and  their  mistress.  On  the  threshold  Gar- 
nache  paused,  and  looked  over  his  shoulder. 

"Are  you  content,  madame?  Have  you  seen  fine 
deeds  enough  for  one  day?"  he  asked  her,  laughing. 
But,  white  to  the  lips  with  chagrin,  she  returned  no 
answer. 

Garnache  and  his  party  crossed  the  anteroom, 
after  having  taken  the  precaution  to  lock  the  door 
upon  the  Marquise  and  her  men,  and  proceeding 
down  a  gloomy  passage  they  gained  the  courtyard. 
Here  Marius  was  consoled  to  find  some  men  of  the 
garrison  of  Condillac  —  a  half-score,  or  so  —  all  more 
or  less  armed,  surrounding  the  horses  of  Garnache 
and  his  lackey.  At  sight  of  the  odd  group  that  now 
appeared  those  ruffians  stood  at  gaze,  surprised,  and 
with  suspicions  aroused  by  Garnache's  naked  sword, 
ready  for  anything  their  master  might  demand  of 
them. 

Marius  had  in  that  instant  a  gleam  of  hope.  Thus 
far,  Garnache  had  been  master  of  the  situation.  But 
surely  the  position  would  be  reversed  when  Garnache 
and  his  man  came  to  mount  their  horses,  particularly 
considering  how  hampered  they  must  be  by  Valerie. 
This  danger  Garnache,  however,  was  no  less  quick  to 
perceive,  and  with  a  dismaying  promptness  did  he 
take  his  measures. 

"Remember,"  he  threatened  Monsieur  de  Condil- 
lac, "if  any  of  your  men  show  their  teeth  it  will  be  the 
worse  for  you."  They  had  come  to  a  halt  on  the 
threshold  of  the  courtyard.  "You  will  be  so  good  as 
to  bid  them  retreat  through  that  doorway  across  the 
yard  yonder." 


GARNACHE  LOSES  HIS  TEMPER 


73 


Marius  hesitated.  "And  if  I  refuse  ? "  he  demanded 
hardily,  but  keeping  his  back  to  Garnache.  The  men 
stirred,  and  stray  words  of  mingling  wonder  and 
anger  reached  the  Parisian. 

"You  will  not,"  said  Garnache,  with  quiet  confi- 
dence. 

"I  think  you  make  too  sure,"  Marius  replied,  and 
dissembled  his  misgivings  in  a  short  laugh.  Garnache 
became  impatient.  His  position  was  not  being  im- 
proved by  delay. 

"Monsieur  de  Condillac,"  said  he,  speaking  quickly 
and  yet  with  an  incisiveness  of  tone  that  made  his 
.words  sound  deliberate,  "I  am  a  desperate  man  in  a 
desperate  position.  Every  moment  that  I  tarry  here 
increases  my  danger  and  shortens  my  temper.  If  you 
think  to  temporize  in  the  hope  of  gaining  an  oppor- 
tunity of  turning  the  tables  upon  me,  you  must  be 
mad  to  dream  that  I  shall  permit  it.  Monsieur,  you 
will  at  once  order  those  men  to  leave  the  courtyard 
by  that  doorway,  or  I  give  you  my  word  of  honour 
that  I  shall  run  you  through  as  you  stand." 

"That  would  be  to  destroy  yourself,"  said  Marius 
with  an  attempted  note  of  confidence. 

"  I  should  be  no  less  destroyed  by  delay,"  answered 
Garnache;  and  added  more  sharply,  "Give  the  word, 
monsieur,  or  I  will  make  an  end." 

From  the  movement  behind  him  Marius  guessed 
almost  by  instinct  that  Garnache  had  drawn  back  for 
a  lunge.  At  his  side  Valerie  looked  over  her  shoulder, 
with  eyes  that  were  startled  but  unafraid.  For  a  sec- 
ond Marius  considered  whether  he  might  not  attempt 
to  elude  Garnache  by  a  wild  and  sudden  dash  towards 
his  men.  But  the  consequences  of  failure  were  too 
fearful. 


74  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  gave  the  order. 
The  men  hesitated  a  moment,  then  shuffled  away  in 
the  direction  indicated.  But  they  went  slowly,  with 
much  half-whispered,  sullen  conferring  and  many  a 
backward  glance  at  Marius  and  those  with  him. 

"  Bid  them  go  faster,"  snapped  Garnache.  Marius 
obeyed  him,  and  the  men  obeyed  Marius,  and  van- 
ished into  the  gloom  of  the  archway.  After  all, 
thought  Monsieur  de  Condillac,  they  need  go  no 
farther  than  that  doorway;  they  must  have  appre- 
ciated the  situation  by  now;  and  he  was  confident 
they  would  have  the  sense  to  hold  themselves  in  readi- 
ness for  a  rush  in  the  moment  of  Garnache's  mount- 
ing. 

But  Garnache's  next  order  shattered  that  last  hope. 

"Rabecque,"  said  he,  without  turning  his  head, 
"go  and  lock  them  in."  Before  bidding  the  men  go 
that  way,  he  had  satisfied  himself  that  there  was  a 
key  on  the  outside  of  the  door.  "Monsieur  de  Condil- 
lac," he  resumed  to  Marius,  "you  will  order  your  men 
in  no  way  to  hinder  my  servant.  I  shall  act  upon  any 
menace  of  danger  to  my  lackey  precisely  as  I  should 
were  I,  myself,  in  danger." 

Marius's  heart  sank  within  him,  as  sinks  a  stone 
through  water.  He  realized,  as  his  mother  had  real- 
ized a  little  while  before,  that  in  Garnache  they  had 
an  opponent  who  took  no  chances.  In  a  voice  thick 
with  the  torturing  rage  of  impotence  he  gave  the 
order  upon  which  the  grim  Parisian  insisted.  There 
followed  a  silence  broken  by  the  fall  of  Rabecque's 
heavily  shod  feet  upon  the  stones  of  the  yard,  as 
he  crossed  it  to-do  his  master's  bidding.  The  door 
creaked  on  its  hinges;  the  key  grated  screaming  in  its 


GARNACHE  LOSES  HIS  TEMPER 


75 


lock,  and  Rabecque  returned  to  Garn ache's  side  even 
as  Garnache  tapped  Marius  on  the  shoulder. 

"This  way,  Monsieur  de  Condillac,  if  you  please," 
said  he,  and  as  Marius  turned  at  last  to  face  him,  he 
stood  aside  and  waved  his  left  hand  towards  the  door 
through  which  they  had  lately  emerged.  A  moment 
stood  the  youth  facing  his  stern  conqueror;  his  hands 
were  clenched  until  the  knuckles  showed  white;  his 
face  was  a  dull  crimson.  Vainly  he  sought  for  words 
in  which  to  vent  some  of  the  malicious  chagrin  that 
filled  his  soul  almost  to  bursting-point.  Then,  de- 
spairing, with  a  shrug  and  an  inarticulate  mutter,  he 
flung  past  the  Parisian,  obeying  him  as  the  cur  obeys, 
with  pendant  tail  and  teeth-revealing  snarl. 

Garnache  closed  the  door  upon  him  with  a  bang, 
and  smiled  quietly  as  he  turned  to  Valerie. 

"I  think  we  have  won  through,  mademoiselle," 
said  he,  with  pardonable  vanity.  "The  rest  is  easy, 
though  you  may  be  subjected  to  some  slight  discom- 
fort between  this  and  Grenoble." 

She  smiled  back  at  him,  a  pale,  timid  smile,  like  a 
gleam  of  sunshine  from  a  wintry  sky.  "That  matters 
nothing,"  she  assured  him,  and  strove  to  make  her 
voice  sound  brave. 

There  was  need  for  speed,  and  compliments  were 
set  aside  by  Garnache,  who,  at  his  best,  was  not  felici- 
tous with  them.  Valerie  felt  herself  caught  by  the 
wrist,  a  trifle  roughly  she  remembered  afterwards, 
and  hurried  across  the  cobbles  to  the  tethered  horses, 
with  which  Rabecque  was  already  busy.  She  saw 
Garnache  raise  his  foot  to  the  stirrup  and  hoist  him- 
self to  the  saddle.  Then  he  held  down  a  hand  to  her, 
bade  her  set  her  foot  on  his,  and  called  with  an  oath 


76  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


to  Rabecque  to  lend  her  his  assistance.  A  moment 
later  she  was  perched  in  front  of  Garnache,  almost  on 
the  withers  of  his  horse.  The  cobbles  rattled  under 
its  hooves,  the  timbers  of  the  drawbridge  sent  up  a 
booming  sound,  they  were  across  —  out  of  Condillac 
—  and  speeding  at  a  gallop  down  the  white  road  that 
led  to  the  river;  after  them  pounded  Rabecque,  bump- 
ing horribly  in  his  saddle,  and  attempting  wildly,  and 
with  awful  objurgations,  to  find  his  stirrups. 

They  crossed  the  bridge  that  spans  the  Isere  and 
took  the  road  to  Grenoble  at  a  sharp  pace,  with  scarce 
a  backward  glance  at  the  grey  towers  of  Condillac. 
Valerie  experienced  an  overwhelming  inclination  to 
weep  and  laugh,  to  cry  and  sing  at  one  and  the  same 
time;  but  whether  this  odd  emotion  sprang  from  the 
happenings  in  which  she  had  had  her  part,  or  from  the 
exhilaration  of  that  mad  ride,  she  could  not  tell.  No 
doubt  it  sprang  from  both,  owing  a  part  to  each.  She 
controlled  herself,  however.  A  shy,  upward  glance  at 
the  stern,  set  face  of  the  man  whose  arm  encircled  and 
held  her  fast  had  a  curiously  sobering  effect  upon  her. 
Their  eyes  met,  and  he  smiled  a  friendly,  reassuring 
smile,  such  as  a  father  might  have  bestowed  upon  a 
daughter. 

"I  do  not  think  that  they  will  charge  me  with  blun- 
dering this  time,"  he  said. 

"Charge  you  with  blundering?"  she  echoed;  and 
the  inflection  of  the  pronoun  might  have  flattered  him 
had  he  not  reflected  that  it  was  impossible  she  could 
have  understood  his  allusion.  And  now  she  bethought 
her  that  she  had  not  thanked  him  —  and  the  debt 
was  a  heavy  one.  He  had  come  to  her  aid  in  an  hour 
when  hope  seemed  dead.  He  had  come  single-handed 


GARNACHE  LOSES  HIS  TEMPER 


77 


—  save  for  his  man  Rabecque;  and  in  a  manner  that 
was  worthy  of  being  made  the  subject  of  an  epic,  he 
had  carried  her  out  of  Condillac,  away  from  the  ter- 
rible Dowager  and  her  cut-throats.  The  thought  of 
them  sent  a  shiver  through  her. 

"Do  you  feel  the  cold?"  he  asked  concernedly;  and 
that  the  wind  might  cut  her  less,  he  slackened  speed. 

"No,  no,"  she  cried,  her  alarm  waking  again  at  the 
thought  of  the  folk  of  Condillac.  "Make  haste!  Go 
on,  go  on!  Mon  Dieu/  if  they  should  overtake  us!" 

He  looked  over  his  shoulder.  The  road  ran  straight 
for  over  a  half-mile  behind  them,  and  not  a  living 
thing  showed  upon  it. 

"You  need  have  no  alarm,"  he  smiled.  "We  are 
not  pursued.  They  must  have  realized  the  futility  of 
attempting  to  overtake  us.  Courage,  mademoiselle. 
We  shall  be  in  Grenoble  presently,  and  once  there, 
you  will  have  nothing  more  to  fear." 

"You  are  sure  of  that?"  she  asked,  and  there  was 
doubt  in  her  voice. 

He  smiled  reassuringly  again.  "The  Lord  Sen- 
eschal shall  supply  us  with  an  escort,"  he  promised 
confidently. 

"Still,"  she  said,  "we  shall  not  stay  there,  I  hope, 
monsieur." 

"No  longer  than  may  be  necessary  to  procure  a 
coach  for  you." 

"I  am  glad  of  that,"  said  she.  "I  shall  know  no 
peace  until  Grenoble  is  a  good  ten  leagues  behind  us. 
The  Marquise  and  her  son  are  too  powerful  there." 

"Yet  their  might  shall  not  prevail  against  the 
Queen's,"  he  made  reply.  And  as  now  they  rode 
amain  she  fell  to  thanking  him,  shyly  at  first,  then,  as 


78  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


she  gathered  confidence  in  her  subject,  with  a  greater 
fervour.  But  he  interrupted  her  ere  she  had  gone  far. 

"Mademoiselle  de  La  Vauvraye,"  said  he,  "you 
overstate  the  matter."  His  tone  was  chilling  almost, 
and  she  felt  as  she  had  been  rebuked.  "  I  am  no  more 
than  the  emissary  of  Her  Majesty  —  it  is  to  her  that 
your  thanks  are  due." 

"Ah,  but,  monsieur,"  she  returned  to  the  assault, 
"I  owe  some  thanks  to  you  as  well.  What  other  in 
your  place  would  have  done  what  you  have  done?" 

"I  know  not  that,  nor  do  I  greatly  care,"  said  he, 
and  laughed,  but  with  a  laugh  that  jarred  on  her. 
"That  which  I  did  I  must  have  done,  no  matter 
whom  it  was  a  question  of  saving.  I  am  but  an  in- 
strument in  this  matter,  mademoiselle." 

His  thought  was  to  do  no  more  than  belittle  the 
service  he  had  rendered  her,  to  stem  her  flow  of  grati- 
tude, since,  indeed,  he  felt,  as  he  said,  that  it  was  to 
the  Queen-Regent  her  thanks  were  due.  All  unwitting 
was  it  —  out  of  his  ignorance  of  the  ways  of  thought 
of  a  sex  with  which  he  held  the  view  that  it  is  an  ill 
thing  to  meddle  —  that  he  wounded  her  by  his  dis- 
claimer, in  which  her  sensitive  maiden  fancy  imagined 
a  something  that  was  almost  contemptuous. 

They  rode  in  silence  for  a  little  spell,  broken  at  last 
by  Garnache  in  expression  of  the  thoughts  that  had 
come  to  him  as  a  consequence  of  what  she  had  said. 

"On  this  same  subject  of  thanks,"  said  he  —  and 
as  she  raised  her  eyes  again  she  found  him  smiling 
almost  tenderly  —  "if  any  are  due  between  us  they 
are  surely  due  from  me  to  you." 

"From  you  to  me?"  she  asked  in  wonder. 

"Assuredly,"  said  he.   "Had  you  not  come  be- 


GARNACHE  LOSES  HIS  TEMPER  79 


tween  me  and  the  Dowager's  assassins  there  had  been 
an  end  to  me  in  the  hall  of  Condillac." 

Her  hazel  eyes  were  very  round  for  a  moment,  then 
they  narrowed,  and  little  humorous  lines  formed  at 
the  corners  of  her  lips. 

"Monsieur  de  Garnache,"  said  she,  with  a  mock 
coldness  that  was  a  faint  echo  of  his  own  recent  man- 
ner, "you  overstate  the  case.  That  which  I  did  I 
must  have  done,  no  matter  whom  it  was  a  question  of 
saving.  I  was  but  an  instrument  in  this  matter,  mon- 
sieur." 

His  brows  went  up.  He  stared  at  her  a  moment, 
gathering  instruction  from  the  shy  mockery  of  her 
glance.  Then  he  laughed  with  genuine  amusement. 

"True,"  he  said.  "An  instrument  you  were;  but  an 
instrument  of  Heaven,  whereas  in  me  you  but  behold 
the  instrument  of  an  earthly  power.  We  are  not  quite 
quits,  you  see." 

But  she  felt,  at  least,  that  she  was  quits  with  him  in 
the  matter  of  his  repudiation  of  her  own  thanks,  and 
the  feeling  bridged  the  unfriendly  gap  that  she  had 
felt  was  opening  out  between  them;  and  for  no  reason 
in  the  world  that  she  could  think  of,  she  was  glad  that 
this  was  so. 


CHAPTER  VI 


MONSIEUR  DE  GARNACHE  KEEPS  HIS  TEMPER 

NIGHT  had  fallen  and  it  had  begun  to  rain  when 
Garnache  and  Valerie  reached  Grenoble.  They 
entered  the  town  afoot,  the  Parisian  not  desiring  to 
attract  attention  by  being  seen  in  the  streets  with  a 
lady  on  the  withers  of  his  horse. 

With  thought  for  her  comfort,  Monsieur  de  Gar- 
nache had  divested  himself  of  his  heavy  horseman's 
cloak  and  insisted  upon  her  assuming  it,  so  setting  it 
about  her  that  her  head  was  covered  as  by  a  wimple. 
Thus  was  she  protected  not  only  from  the  rain,  but 
from  the  gaze  of  the  inquisitive. 

They  made  their  way  in  the  drizzle,  through  the 
greasy,  slippery  streets  ashine  with  the  lights  that  fell 
from  door  and  window,  Rabecque  following  closely 
with  the  horses.  Garnache  made  straight  for  his  inn 
—  the  Auberge  du  Veau  qui  Tete  —  which  enjoyed 
the  advantage  of  facing  the  Palais  Seneschal. 

The  ostler  took  charge  of  the  nags,  and  the  landlord 
conducted  them  to  a  room  above-stairs,  which  he 
placed  at  mademoiselle's  disposal.  That  done,  Gar- 
nache left  Rabecque  on  guard,  and  proceeded  to  make 
the  necessary  arrangements  for  the  journey  that  lay 
before  them.  He  began  by  what  he  conceived  to  be 
the  more  urgent  measure,  and  stepping  across  to  the 
Palais  Seneschal,  he  demanded  to  see  Monsieur  de 
Tressan  at  once. 

Ushered  into  the  Lord  Seneschal's  presence,  he 


GARNACHE  KEEPS  HIS  TEMPER  81 


startled  that  obese  gentleman  by  the  announcement 
that  he  had  returned  from  Condillac  with  Mademoi- 
selle de  La  Vauvraye,  and  that  he  would  require  an 
escort  to  accompany  them  to  Paris. 

"For  I  am  by  no  means  minded  to  be  exposed  to 
such  measures  as  the  tigress  cf  Condillac  and  her  cub 
may  take  to  recover  their  victim,"  he  explained  with 
a  grim  smile. 

The  Seneschal  combed  his  beard  and  screwed  up 
his  pale  eyes  until  they  vanished  in  the  cushions  of 
his  cheeks.  He  was  lost  in  amazement.  He  could  only 
imagine  that  the  Queen's  emissary  had  been  duped  — 
more  successfully  this  time. 

"I  am  to  gather,  then,"  said  he,  dissembling  what 
was  passing  through  his  mind,  "that  you  delivered 
the  lady  by  force  or  strategy." 

"By  both,  monsieur,"  was  the  short  answer. 

Tressan  continued  to  comb  his  beard,  and  pondered 
the  situation.  If  things  were  so,  indeed,  they  could 
not  have  fallen  out  more  to  his  taste.  He  had  had  no 
hand  in  it,  one  way  or  the  other.  He  had  run  with  the 
hare  and  hunted  with  the  hounds,  and  neither  party 
could  charge  him  with  any  lack  of  loyalty.  His  ad- 
miration and  respect  for  Monsieur  de  Garnache  grew 
enormously.  When  the  rash  Parisian  had  left  him  that 
afternoon  for  the  purpose  of  carrying  his  message  him- 
self to  Condillac,  Tressan  had  entertained  little  hope'of 
ever  again  seeing  him  alive.  Yet  there  he  stood,  as 
calm  and  composed  as  ever,  announcing  that  single- 
handed  he  had  carried  out  what  another  might  well 
have  hesitated  to  attempt  with  a  regiment  at  his  heels. 

Tressan's  curiosity  urged  him  to  beg  for  the  details 
of  this  marvel,  and  Garnache  entertained  him  with  a 


82  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


brief  recital  of  what  had  taken  place,  whereat,  realiz- 
ing that  Garnache  had  indeed  outwitted  them,  the 
Seneschal's  wonder  increased. 

"But  we  are  not  out  of  the  quagmire  yet,"  cried 
Garnache;  "and  that  is  why  I  want  an  escort." 

Tressan  became  uneasy.  "How  many  men  shall 
you  require?"  he  asked,  thinking  that  the  Parisian 
would  demand  at  least  the  half  of  a  company. 

"A  half-dozen  and  a  sergeant  to  command  them." 

Tressan 's  uneasiness  was  dissipated,  and  he  found 
himself  despising  Garnache  more  for  his  rashness  in 
being  content  with  so  small  a  number  than  he  re- 
spected him  for  the  boldness  and  courage  he  had  so 
lately  displayed.  It  was  not  for  him  to  suggest  that 
the  force  might  prove  insufficient;  rather  was  it  for 
him  to  be  thankful  that  Garnache  had  not  asked  for 
more.  An  escort  Tressan  dared  not  refuse  him,  and 
yet  refuse  it  him  he  must  have  done  —  or  broken 
with  the  Condillacs  —  had  he  asked  for  a  greater 
number.  But  six  men !  Pooh !  they  would  be  of  little 
account.  So  he  very  readily  consented,  inquiring  how 
soon  Garnache  would  require  them. 

"At  once,"  was  the  Parisian's  answer.  "I  leave 
Grenoble  to-night.  I  hope  to  set  out  in  an  hour's 
time.  Meanwhile  I'll  have  the  troopers  form  a  guard 
of  honour.  I  am  lodged  over  the  way." 

Tressan,  but  too  glad  to  be  quit  of  him,  rose  there 
and  then  to  give  the  necessary  orders,  and  within  ten 
minutes  Garnache  was  back  at  the  Sucking  Calf  with 
six  troopers  and  a  sergeant,  who  had  left  their  horses 
in  the  Seneschal's  stables  until  the  time  for  setting 
out.  Meanwhile  Garnache  placed  them  on  duty  in 
the  common-room  of  the  inn. 


GARNACHE  KEEPS  HIS  TEMPER 


83 


He  called  for  refreshment  for  them,  and  bade  them 
remain  there  at  the  orders  of  his  man  Rabecque.  His 
reason  for  this  step  was  that  it  became  necessary  that 
he  should  absent  himself  for  a  while  to  find  a  carriage 
suitable  for  the  journey;  for  as  the  Sucking  Calf  was 
not  a  post-house  he  must  seek  one  elsewhere  —  at  the 
Auberge  de  France,  in  fact,  which  was  situate  on  the 
eastern  side  of  the  town  by  the  Porte  de  Savoie  —  and 
he  was  not  minded  to  leave  the  person  of  Valerie  un- 
guarded during  his  absence.  The  half-dozen  troopers 
he  considered  ample,  as  indeed  they  were. 

On  this  errand  he  departed,  wrapped  tightly  in 
his  cloak,  walking  briskly  through  the  now  heavier 
rain. 

But  at  the  Auberge  de  France  a  disappointment 
awaited  him.  The  host  had  no  horses  and  no  carriage, 
nor  would  he  have  until  the  following  morning.  He 
was  sorrow-stricken  that  the  circumstance  should  dis- 
compose Monsieur  de  Garnache;  he  was  elaborate  in 
his  explanations  of  how  it  happened  that  he  could 
place  no  vehicle  at  Monsieur  de  Garnache's  disposal 

—  so  elaborate  that  it  is  surprising  Monsieur  de 
Garnache's  suspicions  should  not  have  been  aroused. 
For  the  truth  of  the  matter  was  that  the  folk  of  Con- 
dillac  had  been  at  the  Auberge  de  France  before  him 

—  as  they  had  been  elsewhere  in  the  town  wherever  a 
conveyance  might  be  procurable  —  and  by  promises 
of  reward  for  obedience  and  threats  of  punishment 
for  disobedience,  they  had  contrived  that  Garnache 
should  hear  this  same  story  on  every  hand.  His  mis- 
take had  lain  in  his  eagerness  to  obtain  a  guard  from 
the  Seneschal.  Had  he  begun  by  making  sure  of  a 
conveyance,  anticipating,  as  he  should  have  done, 


84  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


this  move  on  the  part  of  the  Condillacs  —  a  move 
which  he  did  not  even  now  suspect  —  it  is  possible 
that  he  might  have  been  spared  much  of  the  trouble 
that  was  to  follow. 

An  hour  or  so  later,  after  having  vainly  ransacked 
the  town  for  the  thing  he  needed,  he  returned  wet  and 
annoyed  to  the  Veau  qui  Tete.  In  a  corner  of  the 
spacious  common-room  —  a  corner  by  the  door  lead- 
ing to  the  interior  of  the  inn  —  he  saw  the  six  troopers 
at  table,  waxing  a  trifle  noisy  over  cards.  Their  ser- 
geant sat  a  little  apart,  in  conversation  with  the  land- 
lord's wife,  eyes  upturned  adoringly,  oblivious  of  the 
increasing  scowl  that  gathered  about  her  watchful 
husband's  brow. 

At  another  table  sat  four  gentlemen  —  seemingly 
travellers,  by  their  air  and  garb  —  in  a  conversation 
that  was  hushed  at  Garnache's  entrance.  But  he  paid 
no  heed  to  them  as  he  stalked  with  ringing  step  across 
the  rushstrewn  floor,  nor  observed  how  covertly  and 
watchfully  their  glances  followed  him  as  returning, 
in  passing  the  sergeant's  prompt  salute  he  vanished 
through  the  doorway  leading  to  the  stairs. 

He  reappeared  again  a  moment  later,  to  call  the 
host,  and  give  him  orders  for  the  preparing  of  his  own 
and  Rabecque's  supper. 

On  the  landing  above  he  found  Rabecque  awaiting 
him. 

"Is  all  well?"  he  asked,  and  received  from  his 
lackey  a  reassuring  answer. 

Mademoiselle  welcomed  him  gladly.  His  long  ab- 
sence, it  appeared,  had  been  giving  her  concern.  He 
told  her  on  what  errand  he  had  been,  and  alarm  over- 
spread her  face  upon  hearing  its  result. 


GARNACHE  KEEPS  HIS  TEMPER  85 


"But,  monsieur,"  she  cried,  "you  are  not  proposing 
that  I  should  remain  a  night  in  Grenoble." 

"What  alternative  have  we?"  he  asked,  and  his 
brows  met,  impatient  at  what  he  accounted  no  more 
than  feminine  whimsey. 

"It  is  not  safe,"  she  exclaimed,  her  fears  increasing. 
"You  do  not  know  how  powerful  are  the  Condillacs." 

He  strode  to  the  fire,  and  the  logs  hissed  under  the 
pressure  of  his  wet  boot.  He  set  his  back  to  the  blaze, 
and  smiled  down  upon  her. 

"Nor  do  you  know  how  powerful  are  we,"  he  an- 
swered easily.  "I  have  below  six  troopers  and  a  ser- 
geant of  the  Seneschal's  regiment;  with  myself  and 
Rabecque  we  are  nine  men  in  all.  That  should  be  a 
sufficient  guard,  mademoiselle.  Nor  do  I  think  that 
with  all  their  power  the  Condillacs  will  venture  here 
to  claim  you  at  the  sword-point." 

"And  yet,"  she  answered,  for  all  that  she  was 
plainly  reassured,  at  least  in  part,  "I  would  rather 
you  had  got  me  a  horse,  that  we  might  have  ridden  to 
Saint  Marcellin,  where  no  doubt  a  carriage  might  be 
obtained." 

"  I  did  not  see  the  need  to  put  you  to  so  much  dis- 
comfort," he  returned.  "It  is  raining  heavily." 

"Oh,  what  of  that?"  she  flung  back  impatiently. 

"Besides,"  he  added,  "it  seems  there  are  no  horses 
at  the  post-house.  A  benighted  place  this  Dauphiny 
of  yours,  mademoiselle." 

But  she  never  heeded  the  gibe  at  her  native  prov- 
ince. "No  horses?"  she  echoed,  and  her  hazel  eyes 
looked  up  sharply,  the  alarm  returning  to  her  face. 
She  rose,  and  approached  him.  "Surely  that  is  im- 
possible." 


86  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


"I  assure  you  that  it  is  as  I  say  —  neither  at  the 
post-house  nor  at  any  of  the  inns  I  visited  could  I  find 
me  a  spare  horse." 

"Monsieur,"  she  cried,  "I  see  the  hand  of  Condil- 
lac  in  this." 

"As  how?"  he  inquired,  and  his  tone  again  was 
quickened  by  impatience. 

"They  have  anticipated  you.  They  seek  to  keep 
you  here  —  to  keep  us  in  Grenoble." 

"But  to  what  end?"  he  asked,  his  impatience  grow- 
ing. "The  Auberge  de  France  has  promised  me  a  car- 
riage in  the  morning.  What  shall  it  avail  them  at 
Condillac  to  keep  us  here  to-night?" 

"They  may  have  some  project.  Oh,  monsieur!  I 
am  full  of  fears." 

"Dismiss  them,"  he  answered  lightly;  and  to  reas- 
sure her  he  added,  smiling:  "Rest  assured  we  shall 
keep  good  watch  over  you,  Rabecque  and  I  and 
the  troopers.  A  guard  shall  remain  in  the  passage 
throughout  the  night.  Rabecque  and  I  will  take  turn 
about  at  sentry-go.  Will  that  give  you  peace?" 

"You  are  very  good,"  she  said,  her  voice  quivering 
with  feeling  and  real  gratitude,  and  as  he  was  depart- 
ing she  called  after  him.  "  You  will  be  careful  of  your- 
self," she  said. 

He  paused  under  the  lintel,  and  turned,  surprised. 
"It  is  a  habit  of  mine,"  said  he,  with  a  glint  of  humour 
in  his  eye. 

But  there  was  no  answering  smile  from  her.  Her 
face  was  all  anxiety. 

"Beware  of  pitfalls,"  she  bade  him.  "Go  warily; 
they  are  cruelly  cunning,  those  folk  of  Condillac.  And 
if  evil  should  befall  you  .  .  ." 


GARNACHE  KEEPS  HIS  TEMPER 


87 


"There  would  still  remain  Rabecque  and  the 
troopers,"  he  concluded. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "I  implore  you  to  be 
careful,"  she  insisted. 

"You  may  depend  upon  me,"  he  said,  and  closed 
the  door. 

Outside  he  called  Rabecque,  and  together  they 
went  below.  But  mindful  of  her  fears,  he  dispatched 
one  of  the  troopers  to  stand  sentry  outside  her  door 
whilst  he  and  his  lackey  supped.  That  done,  he  called 
the  host,  and  set  himself  at  table,  Rabecque  at  his 
elbow  in  attendance  to  hand  him  the  dishes  and  pour 
his  wine. 

Across  the  low-ceilinged  room  the  four  travellers 
still  sat  in  talk,  and  as  Garnache  seated  himself,  one 
of  them  shouted  for  the  host  and  asked  in  an  im- 
patient tone  to  know  if  his  supper  was  soon  to  come. 

"In  a  moment,  sir,"  answered  the  landlord  respect- 
fully, and  he  turned  again  to  the  Parisian.  He  went 
out  to  bring  the  latter's  meal,  and  whilst  he  was  gone 
Rabecque  heard  from  his  master  the  reason  of  their 
remaining  that  night  in  Grenoble.  The  inference 
drawn  by  the  astute  lackey  —  and  freely  expressed 
by  him  —  from  the  lack  of  horses  or  carriages  in 
Grenoble  that  night,  coincided  oddly  with  Valerie's. 
He  too  gave  it  as  his  opinion  that  his  master  had  been 
forestalled  by  the  Dowager's  people,  and  without  pre- 
suming to  advise  Garnache  to  go  warily  —  a  piece  of 
advice  that  Garnache  would  have  resented,  to  the 
extent  perhaps  of  boxing  the  fellow's  ears  —  he  de- 
termined, there  and  then,  to  keep  a  close  watch  upon 
his  master,  and  under  no  circumstances,  if  possible, 
permit  him  to  leave  the  Sucking  Calf  that  night. 


88  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


The  host  returned,  bearing  a  platter  on  which  there 
steamed  a  ragout  that  gave  out  an  appetizing  odour; 
his  wife  followed  with  other  dishes  and  a  bottle  of 
Armagnac  under  her  arm.  Rabecque  busied  himself 
at  once,  and  his  hungry  master  disposed  himself  to 
satisfy  the  healthiest  appetite  in  France,  when  sud- 
denly a  shadow  fell  across  the  table.  A  man  had  come 
to  stand  beside  it,  his  body  screening  the  light  of  one 
of  the  lamps  that  hung  from  a  rafter  of  the  ceiling. 

"At  last!"  he  exclaimed,  and  his  voice  was  harsh 
with  ill-humour. 

Garnache  looked  up,  pausing  in  the  very  act  of 
helping  himself  to  that  ragout.  Rabecque  looked  up 
from  behind  his  master,  and  his  lips  tightened.  The 
host  looked  up  from  the  act  of  drawing  the  cork  of  the 
flagon  he  had  taken  from  his  wife,  and  his  eyes  grew 
big  as  in  his  mind  he  prepared  a  judicious  blend  of 
apology  and  remonstrance  wherewith  to  soothe  this 
very  impatient  gentleman.  But  before  he  could 
speak,  Garnache's  voice  cut  sharply  into  the  silence. 
An  interruption  at  such  a  moment  vexed  him  sorely. 

"Monsieur  says?"  quoth  he. 

"To  you,  sir  —  nothing,"  answered  the  fellow  im- 
pudently, and  looked  him  straight  between  the  eyes. 

With  a  flush  mounting  to  his  cheeks,  and  his  brows 
drawn  together  in  perplexity,  Garnache  surveyed 
him.  He  was  that  same  traveller  who  had  lately  clam- 
oured to  know  when  he  might  sup,  a  man  of  rather 
more  than  middle  height,  lithe  and  active  of  frame, 
yet  with  a  breadth  of  shoulder  and  depth  of  chest 
that  argued  strength  and  endurance  as  well.  He  had 
fair,  wavy  hair,  which  he  wore  rather  longer  than  was 
the  mode,  brown  eyes,  and  a  face  which,  without 


GARNACHE  KEEPS  HIS  TEMPER 


89 


being  handsome,  was  yet  more  than  ordinarily  engag- 
ing by  virtue  of  its  strength  and  frank  ingenuousness. 
His  dress  was  his  worst  feature.  It  was  flamboyant 
and  showy;  cheap,  and  tawdrily  pretentious.  Yet 
he  bore  himself  with  the  easy  dignity  of  a  man  who 
counts  more  inferiors  than  superiors. 

Despite  the  arrogant  manner  of  his  address,  Gar- 
nache  felt  prepossessed  in  the  newcomer's  favour.  But 
before  he  could  answer  him,  the  host  was  speaking. 

"Monsieur  mistakes  . .  ."  he  began. 

"Mistakes?"  thundered  the  other  in  an  accent 
slightly  foreign.  "It  is  you  who  mistake  if  you  pro- 
pose to  tell  me  that  this  is  not  my  supper.  Am  I  to 
wait  all  night,  while  every  jackanapes  who  follows  me 
into  your  pigsty  is  to  be  served  before  me?" 

"Jackanapes?"  said  Garnache  thoughtfully,  and 
looked  the  man  in  the  face  again.  Behind  the  stranger 
pressed  his  three  companions  now,  whilst  the  troopers 
across  the  room  forgot  their  card-play  to  watch  the 
altercation  that  seemed  to  impend. 

The  foreigner  —  for  such,  indeed,  his  French  pro- 
claimed him  —  turned  half-con temptuously  to  the 
host,  ignoring  Garnache  with  an  air  that  was  studi- 
ously offensive. 

"Jackanapes?"  murmured  Garnache  again,  and  he, 
too,  turned  to  the  host.  "Tell  me,  Monsieur  VHote" 
said  he,  "where  do  the  jackanapes  bury  their  dead  in 
Grenoble?  I  may  need  the  information." 

Before  the  distressed  landlord  could  utter  a  word, 
the  stranger  had  wheeled  about  again  to  face  Gar- 
nache. "What  shall  that  mean?"  he  asked  sharply,  a 
great  fierceness  in  his  glance. 

"That  Grenoble  may  be  witnessing  the  funeral  of 


SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


a  foreign  bully  by  to-morrow,  Monsieur  VEtranger" 
said  Garnache,  snowing  his  teeth  in  a  pleasant  smile. 
He  became  conscious  in  that  moment  of  a  pressure  on 
his  shoulder  blade,  but  paid  no  heed  to  it,  intent  on 
watching  the  other's  countenance.  It  expressed  sur- 
prise a  moment,  then  grew  dark  with  anger. 

"Do  you  mean  that  for  me,  sir?"  he  growled. 

Garnache  spread  his  hands.  "If  monsieur  feels 
that  the  cap  fits  him,  I  shall  not  stay  him  in  the  act  of 
donning  it." 

The  stranger  set  one  hand  upon  the  table,  and 
leaned  forward  towards  Garnache.  "May  I  ask  mon- 
sieur to  be  a  little  more  definite?"  he  begged. 

Garnache  sat  back  in  his  chair  and  surveyed  the 
man,  smiling.  Quick  though  his  temper  usually  might 
be,  it  was  checked  at  present  by  amusement.  He  had 
seen  in  his  time  many  quarrels  spring  from  the  flimsi- 
est of  motives,  but  surely  never  had  he  seen  one  quite 
so  self-begotten.  It  was  almost  as  if  the  fellow  had 
come  there  of  set  purpose  to  pick  it  with  him. 

A  suspicion  flashed  across  his  mind.  He  remem- 
bered the  warning  mademoiselle  had  given  him.  And 
he  wondered.  Was  this  a  trick  to  lure  him  to  some 
guet-apens?  He  surveyed  his  man  more  closely;  but 
the  inspection  lent  no  colour  to  his  suspicions.  The 
stranger  looked  so  frank  and  honest;  then  again  his 
accent  was  foreign.  It  might  very  well  be  that  he  was 
some  Savoyard  lordling  unused  to  being  kept  waiting, 
and  that  his  hunger  made  him  irritable  and  impatient. 
If  that  were  so,  assuredly  the  fellow  deserved  a  lesson 
that  should  show  him  he  was  now  in  France,  where 
different  manners  obtained  to  those  that  he  dis- 
played; yet,  lest  he  should  be  something  else,  Gar- 


GARNACHE  KEEPS  HIS  TEMPER 


nache  determined  to  pursue  a  policy  of  conciliation. 
It  would  be  a  madness  to  embroil  himself  just  then, 
whether  this  fellow  were  of  Condillac  or  not. 

"I  have  asked  you,  monsieur,"  the  stranger  in- 
sisted, "to  be  a  little  more  definite." 

Garnache's  smile  broadened  and  grew  more 
friendly.  "Frankly,"  said  he,  "I  experience  diffi- 
culty. My  remark  was  vague.  I  meant  it  so  to  be." 

"But  it  offended  me,  monsieur,"  the  other  an- 
swered sharply. 

The  Parisian  raised  his  eyebrows,  and  pursed  his 
lips.  "Then  I  deplore  it,"  said  he.  And  now  he  had  to 
endure  the  hardest  trial  of  all.  The  stranger's  expres- 
sion changed  to  one  of  wondering  scorn. 

"Do  I  understand  that  monsieur  apologizes?" 

Garnache  felt  himself  crimsoning;  his  self-control 
was  slipping  from  him;  the  pressure  against  his 
shoulder  blade  was  renewed,  and  in  time  he  became 
aware  of  it  and  knew  it  for  a  warning  from  Ra- 
becque. 

"I  cannot  conceive,  sir,  that  I  have  offended,"  said 
he  at  length,  keeping  a  tight  hand  upon  his  every 
instinct  —  which  was  to  knock  this  impertinent 
stranger  down.  "  But  if  I  have,  I  beg  that  you  will 
believe  that  I  have  done  so  unwittingly.  I  had  no 
such  intent." 

The  stranger  removed  his  hand  from  the  table  and 
drew  himself  erect. 

"So  much  for  that,  then,"  said  he,  provokingly 
contemptuous.  "If  you  will  be  as  amiable  in  the  mat- 
ter of  the  supper  I  shall  be  glad  to  terminate  an 
acquaintance  which  I  can  see  no  honour  to  myself  in 


92  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


This,  Garnache  felt,  was  more  than  he  could  en- 
dure. A  spasm  of  passion  crossed  his  face,  another 
instant  and  despite  Rabecque's  frantic  proddings  he 
might  have  flung  the  ragout  in  the  gentleman's  face, 
when  suddenly  came  the  landlord  unexpectedly  to  the 
rescue. 

"Monsieur,  here  comes  your  supper  now,"  he  an- 
nounced, as  his  wife  reentered  from  the  kitchen  with 
a  laden  tray. 

For  a  moment  the  stranger  seemed  out  of  counte- 
nance. Then  he  looked  with  cold  insolence  from  the 
dishes  set  before  Garnache  to  those  which  were  being 
set  for  himself. 

"Ah,"  said  he,  and  his  tone  was  an  insult  unsur- 
passable, "perhaps  it  is  to  be  preferred.  This  ragout 
grows  cold,  I  think." 

He  sniffed,  and  turning  on  his  heel,  without  word  or 
sign  of  salutation  to  Garnache,  he  passed  to  the  next 
table,  and  sat  down  with  his  companions.  The  Pari- 
sian's eyes  followed  him,  and  they  blazed  with  sup- 
pressed wrath.  Never  in  all  his  life  had  he  exercised 
such  self-control  as  he  was  exercising  then  —  which 
was  the  reason  why  he  had  failed  to  achieve  greatness 
—  and  he  was  exercising  it  for  the  sake  of  that  child 
above-stairs,  and  because  he  kept  ever-present  in  his 
mind  the  thought  that  she  must  come  to  grievous 
harm  if  ill  befell  himself.  But  he  controlled  his  pas- 
sion at  the  cost  of  his  appetite.  He  could  not  eat,  so 
enraged  was  he.  And  so  he  pushed  the  platter  from 
him,  and  rose. 

He  turned  to  Rabecque,  and  the  sight  of  his  face 
sent  the  lackey  back  a  pace  or  two  in  very  fear.  He 
waved  his  hand  to  the  table. 


GARNACHE  KEEPS  HIS  TEMPER 


93 


"Sup,  Rabecque,"  said  he.  "Then  come  to  me 
above." 

And  followed,  as  before,  by  the  eyes  of  the  stranger 
and  his  companions,  Garnache  strode  out  of  the  room, 
and  mounting  the  stairs  went  to  find  solace  in  talk 
with  Valerie.  But  however  impossible  he  might  find 
it  to  digest  the  affront  he  had  swallowed,  no  word  of 
the  matter  did  he  utter  to  the  girl,  lest  it  should  cause 
her  fears  to  reawaken. 


CHAPTER  VII 


THE  OPENING  OF  THE  TRAP 

GARNACHE  spent  a  sleepless  night  at  Grenoble, 
on  guard  throughout  the  greater  part  of  it  — ■ 
since  nothing  short  of  that  would  appease  the  fears  of 
Valerie.  Yet  it  passed  without  any  bellicose  mani- 
festation on  the  part  of  the  Condillacs  such  as  Valerie 
feared  and  such  as  Garnache  was  satisfied  would  not 
—  could  not,  indeed  —  take  place. 

Betimes  next  morning  he  dispatched  Rabecque  to 
the  Auberge  de  France  for  the  promised  carriage,  and 
broke  his  fast  in  the  common-room  what  time  he 
awaited  his  man's  return.  The  chamber  was  again 
occupied  by  the  stranger  of  yesternight,  who  sat 
apart,  however,  and  seemed  no  longer  disposed  to 
interfere  with  the  Parisian.  Garnache  wondered  idly, 
might  this  be  due  to  the  circumstance  that  that  same 
stranger  was  supported  now  by  one  single  companion, 
and  was  therefore  less  valorous  than  when  he  had 
been  in  the  company  of  three. 

At  another  table  were  two  gentlemen,  sprung  he 
knew  not  whence,  quiet  in  dress  and  orderly  in  man- 
ner, to  whom  he  paid  little  heed  until  one  of  them  — 
a  slender,  swarthy,  hawk-faced  fellow  —  looking  up 
suddenly,  started  slightly  at  sight  of  the  Parisian  and 
addressed  him  instantly  by  name.  Garnache  paused 
in  the  act  of  rising  from  table,  half-turned,  and 
sharply  scrutinized  the  swarthy  gentleman,  but  failed 
to  recognize  him.  He  advanced  towards  him. 


THE  OPENING  OF  THE  TRAP 


"I  have  the  honour  to  be  known  to  you,  mon- 
sieur?" he  half-stated,  half-inquired. 

"  Parbleuy  Monsieur  de  Garnache!"  exclaimed  the 
other  with  a  ready  smile,  the  more  winning  since  it 
lighted  up  a  face  that  at  rest  was  very  sombre. 
"Lives  there  a  Parisian  to  whom  you  are  not  known? 
I  have  seen  you  often  at  the  Hotel  de  Bourgogne." 

Garnache  acknowledged  the  courtesy  by  a  slight 
inclination  of  the  head. 

"And  once,"  continued  the  other,  "I  had  the  hon- 
our to  be  presented  to  you  by  Monsieur  le  Due  him- 
self. My  name  is  Gaubert  —  Fabre  Gaubert."  And 
as  he  introduced  himself  he  rose  out  of  respect  for 
Garnache,  who  had  remained  standing.  Garnache 
knew  him  not  at  all,  yet  never  doubted  that  his  tale 
was  true;  the  fellow  had  a  very  courtly,  winning  air; 
moreover,  Garnache  was  beginning  to  feel  lonely  in 
the  wilds  of  Dauphiny,  so  that  it  rejoiced  him  to  come 
into  the  company  of  one  whom  he  might  regard  as 
something  of  a  fellow-creature.  He  held  out  his  hand. 

"  I  am  honoured  in  that  you  should  have  borne  me 
in  your  memory,  monsieur,"  said  he.  He  was  about 
to  add  that  he  would  be  overjoyed  if  it  should  happen 
that  Monsieur  Gaubert  was  travelling  to  Paris,  since 
he  might  give  himself  the  pleasure  of  his  company  on 
that  tedious  journey;  but  he  checked  himself  betimes. 
He  had  no  reason  to  suspect  this  gentleman;  and  yet, 
all  things  considered,  he  bethought  him  suddenly 
that  he  would  do  well  to  observe  the  greatest  circum- 
spection. So  with  a  pleasant  but  meaningless  civility 
touching  Monsieur  Gaubert's  presence  in  those  parts, 
Garnache  passed  on  and  gained  the  door.  He  paused 
in  the  porch,  above  which  the  rebus-like  sign  of  the 


96  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


Sucking  Calf  creaked  and  grated  in  each  gust  of  the 
chill  wind  that  was  blowing  from  the  Alps.  The  rain 
had  ceased,  but  the  sky  was  dark  and  heavy  with 
great  banks  of  scudding  clouds.  In  the  street  the  men 
of  his  escort  sat  their  horses,  having  mounted  at  his 
bidding  in  readiness  for  the  journey.  A  word  or  two 
he  exchanged  with  the  sergeant,  and  then  with  a 
great  rumble  the  clumsy  carriage  from  the  Auberge 
de  France  heralded  its  approach.  It  rolled  up  the 
street,  a  vast  machine  of  wood  and  leather,  drawn  by 
three  horses,  and  drew  up  at  the  door  of  the  inn.  Out 
sprang  Rabecque,  to  be  immediately  sent  by  his 
master  to  summon  mademoiselle.  They  would  set 
out  upon  the  instant. 

Rabecque  turned  to  obey;  but  in  that  same  mo- 
ment he  was  thrust  rudely  aside  by  a  man  with  the 
air  of  a  servant,  who  issued  from  the  inn  carrying  a 
valise;  after  him,  following  close  upon  his  heels,  with 
head  held  high  and  eyes  that  looked  straight  before 
him  and  took  no  heed  of  Garnache,  came  the  for- 
eigner of  yesternight. 

Rabecque,  his  shoulders  touching  the  timbers  of 
the  porch,  against  which  he  had  been  thrust,  re- 
mained at  gaze,  following  with  resentful  eye  the  fel- 
low who  had  so  rudely  used  him.  Garnache,  on  the 
other  side,  watched  with  some  wonder  the  advent  of 
the  ingenuous-looking  stranger,  but  as  yet  with  no 
suspicion  of  his  intent. 

Not  until  the  servant  had  thrown  open  the  door  of 
the  coach  and  deposited  within  the  valise  he  carried, 
did  Garnache  stir.  Not,  indeed,  until  the  foreigner's 
foot  was  on  the  step  preparatory  to  mounting  did 
Garnache  speak. 


THE  OPENING  OF  THE  TRAP 


97 


"Hi!  monsieur,"  he  called  to  him,  "what  is  your 
pleasure  with  my  carriage?" 

The  stranger  turned,  and  stared  at  Garnache  with  a 
look  of  wonder  that  artfully  changed  to  one  of  dis- 
dainful recognition. 

"Ah?"  said  he,  and  his  eyebrows  went  up.  "The 
apologetic  gentleman!  You  said?" 

Garnache  approached  him,  followed  a  step  not  only 
by  Rabecque,  but  also  by  Monsieur  Gaubert,  who 
had  sauntered  out  a  second  earlier.  Behind  them,  in 
the  porch,  lounged  now  the  foreigner's  friend,  and  be- 
hind him  again  was  to  be  seen  the  great  face  and  star- 
ing, somewhat  startled  eyes  of  the  landlord. 

"Tasked  you,  monsieur,"  said  Garnache,  already 
at  grips  with  that  quick  temper  of  his,  "what  might 
be  your  pleasure  with  my  coach?" 

uWith  your  coach?"  echoed  the  other,  his  super- 
ciliousness waxing  more  and  more  offensive*.  "Voy- 
onsl  my  apologetic  friend,  do  all  things  in  Grenoble 
belong  to  you?"  He  turned  to  the  post-boy,  who 
looked  on  stolidly.  "You  are  from  the  Auberge  de 
France,  are  you  not?"  quoth  he. 

"I  am,  monsieur,"  replied  the  man.  "This  carriage 
was  ordered  last  night  by  a  gentleman  lodging  at  the 
Veau  qui  Tete?" 

"Perfectly,"  replied  the  stranger,  in  a  tone  of 
finality.  "It  was  ordered  by  me."  And  he  was  about 
to  turn  away,  when  Garnache  approached  him  by  yet 
another  step. 

"I  will  ask  you  to  observe,  monsieur,"  said  he  — 
and  for  all  that  his  tone  and  words  were  civil,  that 
they  were  forcedly  so  was  obvious  from  their  quiver 
—  "I  will  ask  you  to  observe  that  the  carriage 


98  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


was  fetched  by  my  own  man  there,  who  rode  hither 
in  it." 

The  stranger  looked  him  up  and  down  with  a  curl- 
ing lip. 

"It  seems,  sir,"  said  he,  with  a  broad  sneer,  "that 
you  are  one  of  those  impertinent  fellows  who  will  bs 
for  ever  thrusting  themselves  upon  gentlemen  with  an 
eye  to  such  profit  as  they  can  make."  He  produced  a 
purse  and  opened  it.  "Last  night  it  was  my  supper 
you  usurped.  I  suffered  that.  Now  you  would  do  the 
same  by  my  coach,  and  that  I  shall  not  suffer.  But 
there  is  for  your  pains,  and  to  be  quit  of  your  com- 
pany." And  he  tossed  a  silver  coin  at  the  Parisian. 

There  was  an  exclamation  of  horror  in  the  back- 
ground, and  Monsieur  de  Gaubert  thrust  himself  for- 
ward. 

"Sir,  sir,"  he  exclaimed  in  an  agitated  voice,  "you 
cannot  know  whom  you  are  addressing.  This  is  Mon- 
sieur Martin  Marie  Rigobert  de  Garnache,  Mestre-de- 
Champ  in  the  army  of  the  King." 

"Of  all  those  names  the  one  I  should  opine  might 
fit  him  best,  but  for  his  ugliness,  is  that  of  Marie," 
answered  the  foreigner,  leering,  and  with  a  contemp- 
tuous shrug  he  turned  again  to  mount  the  carriage. 

At  that  all  Garnache's  self-control  deserted  him, 
and  he  did  a  thing  deplorable.  In  one  of  his  blind  ac- 
cesses of  fury,  heedless  of  the  faithful  and  watchful 
Rabecque's  arresting  tug  at  his  sleeve,  he  stepped 
forward,  and  brought  a  heavy  hand  down  upon  the 
supercilious  gentleman's  shoulder.  He  took  him  in 
the  instant  in  which,  with  one  foot  off  the  ground  and 
the  other  on  the  step  of  the  carriage,  the  foreigner 
was  easily  thrown  off  his  balance;  he  dragged  him 


THE  OPENING  OF  THE  TRAP 


99 


violently  backward,  span  him  round  and  dropped 
him  floundering  in  the  mire  of  the  street-kennel. 

That  done,  there  fell  a  pause  —  a  hush  that  was 
ominous  of  things  impending.  A  little  crowd  of  idlers 
that  had  gathered  was  quickly  augmenting  now,  and 
from  some  there  came  a  cry  of  "Shame!"  at  Gar- 
nache's  act  of  violence. 

This  is  no  moment  at  which  to  pause  to  moralize. 
And  yet,  how  often  is  it  not  so?  How  often  does  not 
public  sympathy  go  out  to  the  man  who  has  been 
assaulted  without  thought  of  the  extent  to  which  that 
man  may  have  provoked  and  goaded  his  assailant. 

That  cry  of  "Shame!"  did  no  more  than  increase 
the  anger  that  was  mastering  Garnache.  His  mission 
in  Grenoble  was  forgotten;  mademoiselle  above-stairs 
was  forgotten;  the  need  for  caution  and  the  fear  of 
the  Condillacs  were  forgotten;  everything  was  thrust 
from  his  mind  but  the  situation  of  the  moment. 

Amid  the  hush  that  followed,  the  stranger  picked 
himself  slowly  up,  and  sought  to  wipe  the  filth  from 
his  face  and  garments.  His  servant  and  his  friend 
flew  to  his  aid,  but  he  waved  them  aside,  and  ad- 
vanced towards  Garnache,  eyes  blazing,  lips  sneering. 

"Perhaps,"  said  he,  in  that  soft,  foreign  tone  of 
his,  laden  now  with  fierce  mock-politeness,  "perhaps 
monsieur  proposes  to  apologize  again." 

"Sir,  you  are  mad,"  interposed  Gaubert.  "You  are 
a  foreigner,  I  perceive,  else  you  would  — " 

But  Garnache  thrust  him  quietly  aside.  "You  are 
very  kind,  Monsieur  Gaubert,"  said  he,  and  his  man- 
ner now  was  one  of  frozen  calm  —  a  manner  that  be- 
trayed none  of  the  frenzy  of  seething  passion  under- 
neath. "I  think,  sir,"  said  he  to  the  stranger,  adopt- 


SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


ing  something  of  that  gentleman's  sardonic  manner, 
"that  it  will  be  a  more  peaceful  world  without  you. 
It  is  that  consideration  restrains  me  from  apologizing. 
And  yet,  if  monsieur  will  express  regret  for  having 
sought,  and  with  such  lack  of  manners,  to  appropri- 
ate my  carriage  — " 

"Enough!"  broke  in  the  other.  "We  are  wasting 
time,  and  I  have  a  long  journey  before  me.  Cour- 
thon,"  said  he,  addressing  his  friend,  "will  you  bring 
me  the  length  of  this  gentleman's  sword?  My  name, 
sir,"  he  added  to  Garnache,  "is  Sanguinetti." 

"Faith,"  said  Garnache,  "it  sorts  well  with  your 
bloody  spirit." 

"And  will  sort  well,  no  doubt,  with  his  condition 
presently,"  put  in  hawk-faced  Gaubert.  "Monsieur 
de  Garnache,  if  you  have  no  friend  at  hand  to  act  for 
you,  I  shall  esteem  myself  honoured."  And  he  bowed. 

"Why,  thanks,  sir.  You  are  most  opportunely  met. 
You  should  be  a  gentleman  since  you  frequent  the 
H6tel  de  Bourgogne.  My  thanks." 

Gaubert  went  aside  to  confer  with  Monsieur  Cour- 
thon.  Sanguinetti  stood  apart,  his  manner  haughty 
and  impressive,  his  eye  roaming  scornfully  through 
the  ranks  of  what  had  by  now  become  a  crowd.  Win- 
dows were  opening  in  the  street,  and  heads  appearing, 
and  across  the  way  Garnache  might  have  beheld 
the  flabby  face  of  Monsieur  de  Tressan  among  the 
spectators  of  that  little  scene. 

Rabecque  drew  near  his  master. 

"Have  a  care,  monsieur,"  he  implored  him.  "If 
this  should  be  a  trap." 

Garnache  started.  The  remark  sobered  him,  and 
brought  to  his  mind  his  own  suspicions  of  yesternight, 


THE  OPENING  OF  THE  TRAP 


which  his  present  anger  had  for  the  moment  lulled. 
Still,  he  conceived  that  he  had  gone  too  far  to  extri- 
cate himself.  But  he  could  at  least  see  to  it  that  he 
was  not  drawn  away  from  the  place  that  sheltered 
mademoiselle.  And  so  he  stepped  forward,  joining 
Courthon  and  Gaubert,  to  insist  that  the  combat 
should  take  place  in  the  inn  —  either  in  the  common- 
room  or  in  the  yard.  But  the  landlord,  overhearing 
this,  protested  loudly  that  he  could  not  consent  to  it. 
He  had  his  house  to  think  of.  He  swore  that  they 
should  not  fight  on  his  premises,  and  implored  them 
in  the  same  breath  not  to  attempt  it. 

At  that  Garnache,  now  thoroughly  on  his  guard, 
was  for  putting  off  the  encounter. 

"Monsieur  Courthon,"  said  he  —  and  he  felt  a 
flush  of  shame  mounting  to  his  brow,  and  realized 
that  it  may  need  more  courage  to  avoid  an  encounter 
than  to  engage  in  one  —  "there  is  something  that  in 
the  heat  of  passion  I  forgot;  something  that  renders  it 
difficult  for  me  to  meet  your  friend  at  present." 

Courthon  looked  at  him  as  he  might  look  at  an  im- 
pertinent lackey. 

"And  what  may  that  be?"  he  inquired,  mightily 
contemptuous.  There  was  a  snigger  from  some  in  the 
crowd  that  pressed  about  them,  and  even  Monsieur 
Gaubert  looked  askance. 

"Surely,  sir,"  he  began,  "if  I  did  not  know  you  for 
Monsieur  de  Garnache — " 

But  Garnache  did  not  let  him  finish. 

"Give  me  air,"  he  cried,  and  cuffed  out  to  right  and 
left  of  him  at  the  grinning  spectators,  who  fell  back 
and  grinned  less  broadly.  "My  reason,  Monsieur  de 
Courthon,"  said  he,  "is  that  I  do  not  belong  to  my- 


io2  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


self  at  present.  I  am  in  Grenoble  on  business  of  the 
State,  as  the  emissary  of  the  Queen-Regent,  and  so  it 
would  hardly  become  me  to  engage  in  private  quar- 
rels." 

Courthon  raised  his  brows. 

"You  should  have  thought  of  that  before  you  rolled 
Monsieur  Sanguinetti  in  the  mud,"  he  answered 
coldly. 

"I  will  tender  him  my  apologies  for  that,"  Gar- 
nache  promised,  swallowing  hard,  "and  if  he  still  in- 
sists upon  a  meeting  he  shall  have  it  in,  say,  a  month's 
time." 

"I  cannot  permit — "  began  Courthon,  very 
fiercely. 

"You  will  be  so  good  as  to  inform  your  friend  of 
what  I  have  said,"  Garnache  insisted,  interrupting 
him. 

Cowed,  Courthon  shrugged  and  went  apart  to  con- 
fer with  his  friend. 

"Ah!"  came  Sanguinetti's  soft  voice,  yet  loud 
enough  to  be  heard  by  all  present.  "He  shall  have 
a  caning  then  for  his  impertinence."  And  he  called 
loudly  to  the  post-boy  for  his  whip.  But  at  that  insult 
Garnache's  brain  seemed  to  take  fire,  and  his  cautious 
resolutions  were  reduced  to  ashes  by  the  conflagra- 
tion. He  stepped  forward,  and,  virulent  of  tone  and 
terrific  of  mien,  he  announced  that  since  Monsieur 
Sanguinetti  took  that  tone  with  him,  he  would  cut 
his  throat  for  him  at  once  and  wherever  they  should 
please. 

At  last  it  was  arranged  that  they  should  proceed 
there  and  then  to  the  Champs  aux  Capuchins,  a  half- 
mile  away  behind  the  Franciscan  convent. 


THE  OPENING  OF  THE  TRAP  103 

Accordingly  they  set  out,  Sanguinetti  and  Cour- 
thon  going  first,  and  Garnache  following  with  Gau- 
bert;  the  rear  being  brought  up  by  a  regiment  of 
rabble,  idlers  and  citizens,  that  must  have  repre- 
sented a  very  considerable  proportion  of  the  popula- 
tion of  Grenoble.  This  audience  heartened  Garnache, 
to  whom  some  measure  of  reflection  had  again  re- 
turned. Before  such  numbers  it  was  unthinkable  that 
1  these  gentlemen  —  assuming  them  to  be  acting  on 
behalf  of  Condillac  —  should  dare  to  attempt  foul 
measures  with  him.  For  the  rest  he  had  taken  the 
precaution  of  leaving  Rabecque  at  the  Sucking  Calf, 
and  he  had  given  the  sergeant  strict  injunctions  that 
he  was  not  to  allow  any  of  his  men  to  leave  their  posts 
during  his  absence,  and  that  the  troopers  were  to  hold 
themselves  entirely  at  the  orders  of  Rabecque.  Com- 
paratively easy  therefore  in  his  mind,  and  but  little 
exercised  by  any  thought  of  the  coming  encounter, 
Garnache  walked  briskly  along. 

They  came  at  last  to  the  Champs  aux  Capuchins  — 
a  pleasant  stretch  of  verdure  covering  perhaps  half  an 
acre  and  set  about  by  a  belt  of  beech-trees. 

The  crowd  disposed  itself  on  the  fringe  of  the 
sward,  and  the  duellists  went  forward,  and  set  about 
the  preparations.  Principals  and  seconds  threw  off 
cloak  and  doublet,  and  Sanguinetti,  Courthon,  and 
Gaubert  removed  their  heavy  boots,  whilst  Garnache 
did  no  more  than  detach  the  spurs  from  his. 

Sanguinetti,  observing  this,  drew  the  attention  of 
the  others  to  it,  and  an  altercation  arose.  It  was 
Gaubert  who  came  to  beg  Garnache  that  he  should 
follow  the  example  they  had  set  him  in  that  respect. 
But  Garnache  shook  his  head. 


SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


"The  turf  is  sodden." 

"But  it  is  precisely  on  that  account,  sir,"  protested 
Gaubert  very  earnestly.  "In  your  boots  you  will  be 
unable  to  stand  firm;  you  will  run  the  risk  of  slipping 
every  time  that  you  break  ground." 

"I  venture  to  think,  sir,  that  that  is  my  affair," 
said  Garnache  stiffly. 

"But  it  is  not,"  the  other  cried.  "If  you  fight  in 
your  boots,  we  must  all  do  the  same,  and  for  myself 
—  well,  I  have  not  come  here  to  commit  suicide." 

"Look  you,  Monsieur  Gaubert,"  said  Garnache 
quietly,  "your  opponent  will  be  Monsieur  Courthon, 
and  since  he  is  in  his  stockinged  feet,  there  is  no  rea- 
son why  you  yourself  should  not  remain  so  too.  As 
for  me,  I  retain  my  boots,  and  Monsieur  Sanguinetti 
may  have  all  the  advantage  that  may  give  him. 
Since  I  am  content,  in  Heaven's  name  let  the  fight  go 
forward.  I  am  in  haste." 

Gaubert  bowed  in  submission;  but  Sanguinetti, 
who  had  overheard,  turned  with  an  oath. 

"By  God,  no!"  said  he.  "I  need  no  such  advan- 
tage, sir.  Courthon,  be  so  good  as  to  help  me  on  with 
my  boots  again."  And  there  was  a  fresh  delay  whilst 
he  resumed  them. 

At  last,  however,  the  four  men  came  together,  and 
proceeded  to  the  measurement  of  swords.  It  was 
found  that  Sanguinetti's  was  two  inches  longer  than 
any  of  the  other  three. 

"It  is  the  usual  length  in  Italy,"  said  Sanguinetti 
with  a  shrug. 

"If  monsieur  had  realized  that  he  was  no  longer  in 
Italy,  we  might  perhaps  have  been  spared  this  very 
foolish  business,"  answered  Garnache  testily. 


THE  OPENING  OF  THE  TRAP 


105 


"But  what  are  we  to  do?"  cried  the  perplexed 
Gaubert. 

"Fight,"  said  Garnache  impatiently.  "Is  there 
never  to  be  an  end  to  these  preliminaries?" 

"But  I  cannot  permit  you  to  oppose  yourself  to 
a  sword  two  inches  longer  than  your  own,"  cried 
Gaubert,  almost  in  a  temper. 

"Why  not,  if  I  am  satisfied?"  asked  Garnache. 
"Mine  is  the  longer  reach;  thus  matters  will  stand 
equal." 

"Equal?"  roared  Gaubert.  "Your  longer  reach  is 
an  advantage  that  you  had  from  God,  his  longer 
sword  is  one  he  had  from  an  armourer.  Is  that 
equality?" 

"He  may  have  my  sword,  and  I'll  take  his,"  cut  in 
the  Italian,  also  showing  impatience.  "I  too  am  in 
haste." 

"In  haste  to  die,  then,"  snapped  Gaubert. 
"Monsieur,  this  is  not  seemly,"  Courthon  reproved 
him. 

"You  shall  teach  me  manners  when  we  engage," 
snapped  the  hawk-faced  gentleman. 

"Sirs,  sirs,"  Garnache  implored  them,  "are  we  to 
waste  the  day  in  words  ?  Monsieur  Gaubert,  there  are 
several  gentlemen  yonder  wearing  swords;  I  make  no 
doubt  that  you  will  find  one  whose  blade  is  of  the 
same  length  as  your  own,  sufficiently  obliging  to  lend 
it  to  Monsieur  Sanguinetti." 

"That  is  an  office  that  my  friend  can  do  for  me," 
interposed  Sanguinetti,  and  thereupon  Courthon  de- 
parted, to  return  presently  with  a  borrowed  weapon 
of  the  proper  length. 

At  last  it  seemed  that  they  might  proceed  with  the 


io6  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


business  upon  which  they  were  come;  but  Garnache 
was  wrong  in  so  supposing.  A  discussion  now  arose 
between  Gaubert  and  Courthon  as  to  the  choice  of 
spot.  The  turf  was  drenched  and  slippery,  and  for 
all  that  they  moved  from  place  to  place  testing  the 
ground,  their  principals  following,  nowhere  could 
they  find  the  conditions  sufficiently  improved  to  de- 
cide upon  engaging.  To  Garnache  the  futility  of  this 
was  apparent  from  the  first.  If  these  gentlemen  had 
thought  to  avoid  slippery  ground,  they  should  have 
elected  to  appoint  the  meeting  elsewhere.  But  hav- 
ing chosen  the  Champs  aux  Capuchins,  it  was  idle  to 
expect  that  one  stretch  of  turf  would  prove  firmer 
than  another. 

Wearied  at  last  by  this  delay,  he  gave  expression  to 
his  thoughts. 

"You  are  quite  right,  monsieur,"  said  Courthon. 
"But  your  second  is  over-fastidious.  It  would  sim- 
plify matters  so  much  if  you  would  remove  your 
boots." 

"Look  you,  sirs,"  said  Garnache,  taking  a  firm 
stand,  "I  will  engage  in  my  boots  and  on  this  very 
spot  or  not  at  all.  I  have  told  you  that  I  am  in  haste. 
As  for  the  slipperiness  of  the  ground,  my  opponent 
will  run  no  greater  risks  than  I.  I  am  not  the  only 
impatient  one.  The  spectators  are  beginning  to  jeer 
at  us.  We  shall  have  every  scullion  in  Grenoble  pres- 
ently saying  that  we  are  afraid  of  one  another.  Be- 
sides which,  sirs,  I  think  I  am  taking  cold." 

"I  am  quite  of  monsieur's  mind,  myself,"  drawled 
Sanguinetti. 

"You  hear,  sir,"  exclaimed  Courthon,  turning  to 
Gaubert.  "You  can  scarce  persist  in  finding  objec- 
tions now." 


THE  OPENING  OF  THE  TRAP 


"Why,  since  all  are  satisfied,  so  be  it,"  said  Gau- 
bert,  with  a  shrug.  "I  sought  to  do  the  best  for  my 
principal.  As  it  is,  I  wash  my  hands  of  all  respon- 
sibility, and  by  all  means  let  us  engage,  sirs." 

They  disposed  themselves  accordingly,  Gaubert  en- 
gaging Courthon,  on  Garnache's  right  hand,  and 
Garnache  himself  falling  on  guard  to  receive  the  at- 
tack of  Sanguinetti.  The  jeers  and  murmurs  that 
had  been  rising  from  the  ever-growing  crowd  that 
swarmed  about  the  outskirts  of  the  place  fell  silent  as 
the  clatter  of  meeting  swords  rang  out  at  last.  And 
then,  scarce  were  they  engaged  when  a  voice  arose, 
calling  angrily: 

"Hold,  Sanguinetti!  Wait!" 

A  big,  broad-shouldered  man,  in  a  suit  of  home- 
spun and  a  featherless  hat,  thrust  his  way  rudely 
through  the  crowd  and  broke  into  the  space  within 
the  belt  of  trees.  The  combatants  had  fallen  apart  at 
this  commanding  cry,  and  the  newcomer  now  dashed 
forward,  flushed  and  out  of  breath  as  if  with  run- 

"  Vertudieu!  Sanguinetti,"  he  swore,  and  his  man- 
ner was  half-angry,  half-bantering;  "do  you  call  this 
friendship?" 

"My  dear  Francois,"  returned  the  foreigner,  "you 
arrive  most  inopportunely." 

"And  is  that  all  the  greeting  you  have  for  me?" 

Looking  more  closely,  Garnache  thought  that  he 
recognized  in  him  one  of  Sanguinetti's  companions  of 
yesternight. 

"But  do  you  not  see  that  I  am  engaged?" 

"Ay;  and  that  is  my  grievance  that  you  should  be 
engaged  upon  such  an  affair,  and  that  I  should  have 


io8  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


no  share  in  it.  It  is  to  treat  me  like  a  lackey,  and  I 
have  the  right  to  feel  offended.  Enfin!  It  seems  I  am 
not  come  too  late." 

Garnache  cut  in.  He  saw  the  drift  of  the  fellow's 
intentions,  and  he  was  not  minded  to  submit  to  fresh 
delays;  already  more  than  half  an  hour  was  sped  since 
he  had  left  the  Sucking  Calf.  He  put  it  plainly  to 
them  that  more  than  enough  delay  had  there  been 
already  and  he  begged  the  newcomer  to  stand  aside 
and  allow  them  to  terminate  the  business  on  which 
they  were  met.  But  Monsieur  Francois  —  as  San- 
guinetti  had  called  him  —  would  not  hear  of  it.  He 
proved,  indeed,  a  very  testy  fellow,  and  he  had,  more- 
over, the  support  of  the  others,  including  even  Mon- 
sieur Gaubert. 

"Let  me  implore  you  not  to  spoil  sport,  sir,"  the 
latter  begged  Garnache.  "I  have  a  friend  at  the  inn 
who  would  never  forgive  me  if  I  permitted  him  to 
miss  such  a  morning's  diversion  as  this  gentleman  is 
willing  to  afford  him.  Suffer  me  to  go  for  him." 

"Look  you,  sir,"  answered  Garnache  sharply, 
"however  you  may  view  this  meeting,  it  is  not  with 
me  an  affair  of  jest  or  sport.  I  am  in  a  quarrel  that 
has  been  forced  upon  me,  and  - — " 

"Surely  not,  sir,"  Courthon  interrupted  sweetly. 
"You  forget  that  you  rolled  Monsieur  Sanguinetti  in 
the  mud.  That  is  hardly  to  have  a  quarrel  forced 
upon  you." 

Garnache  bit  his  lip  to  the  blood  in  his  vexation. 

"However  the  quarrel  may  have  originated,"  said 
Francois,  with  a  great  laugh,  "I  swear  that  it  goes  not 
forward  until  I  am  accommodated,  too." 

"You  had  better  accede,  monsieur,"  murmured 


THE  OPENING  OF  THE  TRAP 


Gaubert.  "I  shall  not  be  gone  five  minutes,  and  it 
will  save  time  in  the  end." 

"Oh,  very  well,"  cried  poor  Garnache  in  his  despair. 
"Anything  to  save  time;  anything!  In  God's  name 
fetch  your  friend,  and  I  hope  you  and  he  and  every 
man  here  will  get  his  fill  of  fighting  for  once." 

Gaubert  departed  on  his  errand,  and  there  were 
fresh  murmurs  in  the  mob  until  the  reason  of  his  going 
was  understood.  Five  minutes  sped;  ten  minutes,  and 
yet  he  returned  not.  Grouped  together  were  San- 
guinetti  and  his  two  friends,  in  easy,  whispered  talk. 
At  a  little  distance  from  them,  Garnache  paced  up 
and  down  to  keep  himself  warm.  He  had  thrown  his 
cloak  over  his  shoulders  again,  and  with  sword  tucked 
under  arm  and  head  thrust  forward,  he  stamped  back- 
wards and  forwards,  the  very  picture  of  ill-humour. 
Fifteen  minutes  passed;  twelve  o'clock  boomed  from 
the  Church  of  Saint  Francois  d'Assisi  and  still  Mon- 
sieur Gaubert  returned  not.  Garnache  stood  still  a 
moment,  in  angry  thought.  This  must  not  go  on. 
There  must  be  an  end,  and  at  once.  The  tastes  and 
inclinations  of  brawlers  were  no  concern  of  his.  He 
had  business  of  State  —  however  unworthy  —  to  dis- 
patch. He  turned,  intending  to  demand  of  Monsieur 
Sanguinetti  that  they  should  engage  at  once  and  be 
done,  when  suddenly  a  fellow  roughly  dressed,  with 
dirty  face  and  a  shock  head  of  fair  hair,  pushed  his 
way  through  the  throng  and  advanced  towards  Mon- 
sieur Sanguinetti  and  his  friends.  Garnache  checked 
in  his  movement  to  look  at  the  fellow,  for  he  recog- 
nized in  him  the  ostler  of  the  Auberge  de  France.  He 
spoke  at  that  moment,  and  Garnache  overheard  the 
words  he  uttered. 


no  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


"Monsieur  Sanguinetti,"  said  he,  addressing  that 
gentleman,  "my  master  sends  to  inquire  if  you  shall 
want  the  carriage  you  ordered  for  to-day.  It  has  been 
standing  for  an  hour  at  the  door  of  the  Auberge  de 
France,  awaiting  you,  and  if  you  don't  want  it  — " 

"Standing  where?"  asked  Sanguinetti  harshly. 

"At  the  door  of  the  Auberge  de  France." 

"Peste,  fool!"  cried  the  foreigner,  "why  is  it  there, 
when  I  bade  it  be  sent  to  the  Sucking  Calf?" 

"I  don't  know,  sir.  I  know  no  more  than  Monsieur 
THote  told  me." 

"Now,  a  plague  on  Monsieur  VHote"  swore  San- 
guinetti, and  in  that  moment  his  eye  fell  upon  Gar- 
nache,  standing  there,  attentive.  At  sight  of  the  Pari- 
sian he  seemed  lost  in  confusion.  He  dropped  his 
glance  and  appeared  on  the  point  of  turning  aside. 
Then  to  the  ostler:  "I  shall  want  the  carriage,  and  I 
shall  come  for  it  anon.  Carry  that  message  to  your 
master."  And  with  that  he  turned  and  advanced  to 
Garnache.  His  whilom  arrogance  was  all  fallen  from 
him;  he  wore  instead  an  air  of  extreme  contrition. 

"Monsieur,  what  shall  I  say  to  you?"  he  asked  in  a 
voice  that  was  rather  small.  "  It  seems  there  has  been 
an  error.  I  am  deeply  grieved,  believe  me  — " 

"Say  no  more,  I  beg,"  cried  Garnache,  immensely 
relieved  that  at  last  there  should  be  a  conclusion  to  an 
affair  which  had  threatened  to  be  interminable.  "Let 
me  but  express  my  regrets  for  the  treatment  you  re- 
ceived at  my  hands." 

"I  accept  your  expressions,  and  I  admire  their 
generosity,"  returned  the  other  as  courteous  now  — 
as  subservient,  indeed,  in  his  courtesy  —  as  he  had 
been  erstwhile  fierce  and  intractable.   "As  for  the 


THE  OPENING  OF  THE  TRAP 


in 


treatment  I  received,  I  confess  that  my  mistake  and 
my  opinionativeness  deserved  it  me.  I  deplore  to  de- 
prive these  gentlemen  of  the  entertainment  to  which 
they  were  looking  forward,  but  unless  you  should 
prove  of  an  excessive  amiability  I  am  afraid  they 
must  suffer  with  me  the  consequences  of  my  error." 

Garnache  assured  him  very  briefly,  and  none  too 
politely  that  he  did  not  intend  to  prove  of  any  exces- 
sive amiability.  He  spoke  whilst  struggling  into  his 
doublet.  He  felt  that  he  could  cheerfully  have  caned 
the  fellow  for  the  inconvenience  he  had  caused  him, 
and  yet  he  realized  that  he  had  other  more  pressing 
matters  to  attend  to.  He  sheathed  his  sword,  took  up 
his  cloak  and  hat,  made  those  gentlemen  the  com- 
pliments that  became  the  occasion,  in  terms  a  trifle 
more  brief,  perhaps,  than  were  usual,  and,  still  won- 
dering why  Monsieur  de  Gaubert  had  not  yet  re- 
turned, he  stalked  briskly  away.  Followed  by  the 
booings  of  the  disappointed  crowd,  he  set  out  for  the 
Sucking  Calf  at  a  sharp  pace,  taking  the  shorter  way 
behind  the  Church  and  across  the  graveyard  of  Saint 
Francois. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


THE  CLOSING  OF  THE  TRAP 

UPON  leaving  the  Champs  aux  Capuchins,  hawk- 
faced  Monsieur  Gaubert  had  run  every  foot  of 
the  way  to  the  Sucking  Calf,  and  he  had  arrived  there 
within  some  five  minutes,  out  of  breath  and  wearing 
every  appearance  of  distress  —  of  a  distress  rather 
greater  than  his  haste  to  find  his  friend  should  war- 
rant. 

At  the  door  of  the  inn  he  found  the  carriage  still 
waiting;  the  post-boy,  however,  was  in  the  porch, 
leaning  in  talk  with  one  of  the  drawers.  The  troop- 
ers sat  their  horses  in  stolid  patience,  keeping  guard, 
and  awaiting,  as  they  had  been  bidden,  the  return  of 
Monsieur  de  Garnache.  Rabecque,  very  watchful, 
lounged  in  the  doorway,  betraying  in  his  air  none  of 
the  anxiety  and  impatience  with  which  he  looked  for 
his  master. 

At  sight  of  Monsieur  Gaubert,  running  so  breath- 
lessly, he  started  forward,  wondering  and  uneasy. 
Across  the  street,  from  the  Palais  Seneschal,  came  at 
that  same  moment  Monsieur  de  Tressan  with  rolling 
gait.  He  reached  the  door  of  the  inn  together  with 
Monsieur  Gaubert. 

Full  of  evil  forebodings,  Rabecque  hailed  the 
runner. 

"What  has  happened?"  he  cried.  "Where  is  Mon- 
sieur de  Garnache?" 

Gaubert  came  to  a  staggering  halt;  he  groaned  and 
wrung  his  hands. 


THE  CLOSING  OF  THE  TRAP 


"Killed!"  he  panted,  rocking  himself  in  a  passion 
of  distress.  "He  has  been  butchered!  Oh!  it  was 
horrible!' 

Rabecque  gripped  him  by  the  shoulder,  and  stead- 
ied him  with  a  hand  that  hurt.  "What  do  you  say?" 
he  gasped,  his  face  white  to  the  lips. 

Tressan  halted,  too,  and  turned  upon  Gaubert,  a 
look  of  incredulity  in  his  fat  countenance.  "Who  has 
been  killed?"  he  asked.  "Not  Monsieur  de  Gar- 
nache?' 

"He/as!  yes,"  groaned  the  other.  "It  was  a  snare, 
a  guet-apens  to  which  they  led  us.  Four  of  them  set 
upon  us  in  the  Champs  aux  Capuchins.  As  long  as  he 
lived,  I  stood  beside  him.  But  seeing  him  fallen,  I 
come  for  help." 

"My  God!"  sobbed  Rabecque,  and  loosed  his  grasp 
of  Monsieur  Gaubert's  shoulder. 

"Who  did  it?"  inquired  Tressan,  and  his  voice 
rumbled  fiercely. 

"I  know  not  who  they  were.  The  man  who  picked 
the  quarrel  with  Monsieur  de  Garnache  called  him- 
self Sanguinetti.  There  is  a  riot  down  there  at  pres- 
ent. There  was  a  crowd  to  witness  the  combat, 
and  they  have  fallen  to  fighting  among  themselves. 
Would  to  Heaven  they  had  stirred  in  time  to  save 
that  poor  gentleman  from  being  murdered." 

"A  riot,  did  you  say?"  cried  Tressan,  the  official 
seeming  to  awaken  in  him. 

"Aye,"  answered  the  other  indifferently;  "they  are 
cutting  one  another's  throats." 

"But .  .  .  But .  .  .  Are  you  sure  that  he  is  dead, 
monsieur?"  inquired  Rabecque;  and  his  tone  was  one 
that  implored  contradiction- 


ii4  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


Gaubert  looked  and  paused,  seeming  to  give  the 
matter  a  second's  thought.  "I  saw  him  fall,"  said  he. 
"It  may  be  that  he  was  no  more  than  wounded." 

"And  you  left  him  there?"  roared  the  servant. 
"You  left  him  there?" 

Gaubert  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "What  could  I 
do  against  four?  Besides,  the  crowd  was  interfering 
already,  and  it  seemed  best  to  me  to  come  for  help. 
These  soldiers,  now — " 

"Aye,"  cut  in  Tressan,  and  he  turned  about  and 
called  the  sergeant.  "This  becomes  my  affair."  And 
he  announced  his  quality  to  Monsieur  Gaubert.  "I 
am  the  Lord  Seneschal  of  Dauphiny." 

"I  am  fortunate  in  rinding  you,"  returned  Gaubert, 
and  bowed.  "I  could  place  the  matter  in  no  better 
hands." 

But  Tressan,  without  heeding  him,  was  already 
ordering  the  sergeant  to  ride  hard  with  his  troopers 
for  the  Champs  aux  Capuchins.  Rabecque,  however, 
thrust  himself  suddenly  forward. 

"Not  so,  Monsieur  le  Seneschal,"  he  interposed  in 
fresh  alarm,  and  mindful  of  his  charge.  "These  men 
are  here  to  guard  Mademoiselle  de  La  Vauvraye. 
Let  them  remain.  I  will  go  to  Monsieur  de  Garnache." 

The  Seneschal  stared  at  him  with  contemptuously 
pouting  underlip.  "You  will  go?"  said  he.  "And 
what  can  you  do  alone?  Who  are  you?"  he  asked. 

"I  am  Monsieur  de  Garnache's  servant." 

"A  lackey?  Ah!"  And  Tressan  turned  aside  and 
resumed  his  orders  as  if  Rabecque  did  not  exist  or  had 
never  spoken.  "To  the  Champs  aux  Capuchins!" 
said  he.  "At  the  gallop,  Pommier!  I  will  send  others 
after  you." 


THE  CLOSING  OF  THE  TRAP 


»5 


The  sergeant  rose  in  his  stirrups  and  growled  an 
order.  The  troopers  wheeled  about;  another  order, 
and  they  were  off,  their  cantering  hoofs  thundering 
down  the  narrow  street. 

Rabecque  clutched  at  the  Lord  Seneschal's  arm. 

"Stop  them,  monsieur!"  he  almost  screamed  in  his 
excitement.  "Stop  them!  There  is  some  snare,  some 
trick  in  this." 

"Stop  tnem?"  quoth  the  Seneschal.  "Are  you 
mad  ? "  He  shook  off  Rabecque's  detaining  hand,  and 
left  him,  to  cross  the  street  again  with  ponderous  and 
sluggish  haste,  no  doubt  to  carry  out  his  purpose  of 
sending  more  troopers  to  the  scene  of  the  disturbance. 

Rabecque  swore  angrily  and  bitterly,  and  his  vexa- 
tion had  two  entirely  separate  sources.  On  the  one 
hand  his  anxiety  and  affection  for  his  master  urged 
him  to  run  at  once  to  his  assistance,  whilst  Tressan's 
removal  of  the  troopers  rendered  it  impossible  for 
him  to  leave  Mademoiselle  de  La  Vauvraye  un- 
guarded —  though  what  he  should  do  with  her  if 
Garnache  came  not  back  at  all,  he  did  not  at  this 
stage  pause  to  consider.  On  the  other  hand,  an  in- 
stinctive and  growing  suspicion  of  this  Monsieur 
Gaubert  —  who  was  now  entering  the  inn  —  inspired 
him  with  the  opinion  that  the  fat  Seneschal  had  been 
duped  by  a  wild  tale  to  send  the  troopers  from  the 
spot  where  they  might  presently  become  very  neces- 
sary. 

Full  of  fears,  anxiety,  and  mistrust,  it  was  a  very 
dispirited  Rabecque  that  now  slowly  followed  Mon- 
sieur Gaubert  into  the  inn.  But  as  he  set  his  foot 
across  the  threshold  of  the  common-room,  a  sight  met 
his  eyes  that  brought  him  to  a  momentary  standstill, 


n6  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


and  turned  to  certainty  all  his  rising  suspicions.  He 
found  it  tenanted  by  a  half-dozen  fellows  of  very  rude 
aspect,  all  armed  and  bearing  an  odd  resemblance  in 
air  and  accoutrements  to  the  braves  he  had  seen  at 
Condillac  the  day  before.  As  to  how  they  came  there, 
he  could  only  surmise  that  they  had  entered  through 
the  stable-yard,  as  otherwise  he  must  have  observed 
their  approach.  They  were  grouped  now  at  the  other 
end  of  the  long,  low  chamber,  by  the  door  leading  to 
the  interior  of  the  inn.  A  few  paces  distant  the  land- 
lord watched  them  with  uneasy  eyes. 

But  what  dismayed  Garnache's  servant  most  of  all 
was  to  see  the  man  who  called  himself  Gaubert  stand- 
ing in  talk  with  a  slender,  handsome  youth,  magnifi- 
cently arrayed,  in  whom  he  recognized  Marius  de 
Condillac. 

Rabecque  checked  in  his  advance,  and  caught  in 
that  moment  from  Marius  the  words:  "Let  her  be 
told  that  it  is  Monsieur  de  Garnache  wishes  her  to 
descend." 

At  that  Rabecque  stepped  towards  them,  very  pur- 
poseful of  mien.  Gaubert  turned  at  his  approach,  and 
smiled.  Marius  looked  up  quickly;  then  made  a  sign 
to  the  men.  Instantly  two  of  them  went  out  by  the 
door  they  guarded,  and  ere  it  swung  back  again 
Rabecque  saw  that  they  were  making  for  the  stairs. 
The  remaining  four  ranged  themselves  shoulder  to 
shoulder  across  the  doorway,  plainly  with  intent  to 
bar  the  way.  Gaubert,  followed  immediately  by 
Marius,  stepped  aside  and  approached  the  landlord 
with  arms  akimbo  and  a  truculent  smile  on  his  pale 
hawk  face.  What  he  and  Marius  said,  Rabecque 
could  not  make  out,  but  he  distinctly  heard  the  land- 


THE  CLOSING  OF  THE  TRAP  117 

lord's  answer  delivered  with  a  respectful  bow  to 
Marius : 

"Bien,  Monsieur  de  Condillac.  I  would  not  inter- 
fere in  your  concerns  —  not  for  the  world.  I  will  be 
blind  and  deaf." 

Marius  acknowledged  the  servile  protestation  by  a 
sneer,  and  Rabecque,  stirring  at  last,  went  forward 
boldly  towards  the  doorway  and  its  ugly,  human 
barrier. 

"By  your  leave,  sirs,"  said  he  —  and  he  made  to 
thrust  one  of  them  aside. 

"You  cannot  pass  this  way,  sir,"  he  was  answered, 
respectfully  but  firmly. 

Rabecque  stood  still,  clenching  and  unclenching  his 
hands  and  quivering  with  anger.  It  was  in  that  mo- 
ment that  he  most  fervently  cursed  Tressan  and  his 
stupid  meddling.  Had  the  troopers  still  been  there, 
they  could  have  made  short  work  of  these  tatterde- 
malions. As  it  was,  and  with  Monsieur  de  Garnache 
dead,  or  at  least  absent,  everything  seemed  at  an  end. 
He  might  have  contended  that,  his  master  being  slain, 
it  was  no  great  matter  what  he  did,  for  in  the  end  the 
Condillacs  must  surely  have  their  way  with  Mademoi- 
selle de  La  Vauvraye.  But  he  never  paused  to  think 
of  that  just  then.  His  sense  of  trust  was  strong;  his 
duty  to  his  master  plain.  He  stepped  back,  and  drew 
his  sword. 

"Let  me  pass ! "  he  roared.  But  at  the  same  instant 
there  came  the  soft  slither  of  another  weapon  drawn, 
and  Rabecque  was  forced  to  turn  to  meet  the  on- 
slaught of  Monsieur  Gaubert. 

"You  dirty  traitor,"  cried  the  angry  lackey,  and 
that  was  all  they  left  him  breath  to  say.  Strong  arms 


n8  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


gripped  him  from  behind.  The  sword  was  wrenched 
from  his  hand.  He  was  flung  down  heavily,  and 
pinned  prone  in  a  corner  by  one  of  those  bullies  who 
knelt  on  his  spine.  And  then  the  door  opened  again, 
and  poor  Rabecque  groaned  in  impotent  anguish  to 
behold  Mademoiselle  de  La  Vauvraye  pause  white- 
faced  and  wide-eyed  on  the  threshold  at  sight  of 
Monsieur  de  Condillac  bowing  low  before  her. 

She  stood  there  a  moment  between  the  two  ruffians 
who  had  been  sent  to  fetch  her,  and  her  eyes  trav- 
elling round  that  room  discovered  Rabecque  in  his 
undignified  and  half-strangled  condition. 

"Where  .  . .  Where  is  Monsieur  de  Garnache?"  she 
faltered. 

"He  is  where  all  those  who  cross  the  will  of  Condil- 
lac must  sooner  or  later  find  themselves,"  said  Marius 
airily.  "He  is  .  . .  disposed  of." 

"Do  you  mean  that  he  is  dead?"  she  cried. 

"I  think  it  very  probable  by  now,"  he  smiled.  "So 
you  see,  mademoiselle,  since  the  guardian  the  Queen 
appointed  you  has  .  .  .  deserted  you,  you  would  do 
well  to  return  to  my  mother's  roof.  Let  me  assure 
you  that  we  shall  very  gladly  welcome  your  return. 
We  blame  none  but  Garnache  for  your  departure, 
and  he  has  paid  for  the  brutality  of  his  abduction  of 
you." 

She  turned  in  despair  from  that  mocking  gentle- 
man, and  attempted  to  make  appeal  to  the  landlord, 
as  though  he  could  help  her  who  could  not  help  him- 
self. 

"  Monsieur  VHote  — "  she  began,  but  Marius  cut  in 
sharply. 

"Take  her  out  that  way,"  he  said,  and  pointed 


THE  CLOSING  OF  THE  TRAP 


back  down  the  passage  by  the  stairs.  "To  the  coach. 
Make  haste." 

She  sought  to  resist  them  now;  but  they  dragged 
her  back,  and  there  was  a  rush  of  the  others  following 
through  the  doorway,  the  rear  being  brought  up  by 
Gaubert. 

"  Follow  presently,"  was  his  parting  command  to  the 
man  who  still  knelt  upon  Rabecque,  and  with  that  he 
vanished  too. 

Their  steps  died  away  in  the  passage;  a  door  banged 
in  the  distance.  There  followed  a  silence,  disturbed 
only  by  the  sound  of  Rabecque's  laboured  breathing; 
then  came  a  stir  outside  the  door  of  the  inn;  some  one 
shouted  an  order.  There  was  a  movement  of  hoofs,  a 
creak  and  crunch  of  wheels,  and  presently  the  rumble 
of  a  heavy  carriage  being  driven  rapidly  away.  But 
too  well  did  Rabecque  surmise  what  had  taken  place. 

The  ruffian  released  him  at  last,  and,  leaping  to  his 
feet,  was  gone  before  Rabecque  could  rise.  Once  up, 
however,  the  lackey  darted  to  the  door.  In  the  dis- 
tance he  saw  his  late  assailant  running  hard;  the 
coach  had  disappeared.  He  turned,  and  his  smoulder- 
ing eye  fell  upon  the  landlord. 

"O  pig!"  he  apostrophized  him,  snarling  at  him  to 
vent  some  of  his  pent-up  rage.  "O  cowardly  pig." 

"What  would  you?"  expostulated  the  frightened 
taverner.  "They  had  cut  my  throat  if  I  resisted 
them." 

Rabecque  poured  abuse  upon  him,  until  for  very 
lack  of  words  he  was  forced  to  cease,  then,  with  a  final 
bark  of  contempt,  he  went  to  recover  his  sword, 
which  had  been  flung  into  a  corner  of  the  room.  He 
was  stooping  in  the  act,  when  a  quick  step  rang  be- 


120  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


hind  him  on  the  threshold,  an  angry  voice  harsh  and 
metallic  pronounced  his  name: 
"Rabecque!" 

The  sword  clattered  from  Rabecque's  hand  sud- 
denly gone  nerveless  —  nerveless  with  sheer  joy,  all 
else  forgotten  in  the  perception  that  there,  safe  and 
sound,  stood  his  beloved  master. 

"Monsieur!"  he  cried,  and  the  tears  welled  up  to 
the  rough  servant's  eyes.  "Monsieur!"  he  cried 
again,  and  then  with  the  tears  streaming  down  his 
cheeks,  sallow  and  wrinkled  as  parchment,  "Oh, 
thank  God!"  he  blubbered.  "Thank  God!" 

"For  what?"  asked  Garnache,  coming  forward,  a 
scowl  like  a  thunder-cloud  upon  his  brow.  "Where  is 
the  coach,  where  the  troopers?  Where  is  mademoi- 
selle? Answer  me!" 

He  caught  Rabecque's  wrist  in  a  grip  that  threat- 
ened to  snap  it.  His  face  was  livid,  his  eyes  aflame. 

"They  —  they  — "  stammered  Rabecque.  He  had 
not  the  courage  to  tell  the  thing  that  had  happened. 
He  feared  Garnache  would  strike  him  dead. 

And  then  out  of  his  terror  he  gathered  an  odd  dar- 
ing. He  spoke  to  Garnache  as  never  he  had  dreamt 
to  speak  to  him,  and  it  may  well  be  that  by  his  tone 
and  by  what  he  said  he  saved  his  life  just  then. 

"You  fool,"  he  cried  to  him.  "I  told  you  to  be  on 
your  guard.  I  warned  you  to  go  warily.  But  you 
would  not  heed  me.  You  know  better  than  Rabecque. 
You  would  have  your  way.  You  must  go  a-brawling. 
And  they  duped  you,  they  fooled  you  to  the  very  top 
of  their  bent,  monsieur." 

Garnache  dropped  the  servant's  hand  and  stood 
back  a  pace.  That  counter-blast  of  passion  and  that 


THE  CLOSING  OF  THE  TRAP 


plain  speaking  from  a  quarter  so  unexpected  served, 
in  part  at  least,  to  sober  him.  He  understood  the 
thing  that  had  happened,  the  thing  that  already  he 
suspected  must  have  happened;  but  he  understood 
too  that  he  alone  was  to  blame  for  it  —  he  and  his 
cursed  temper. 

"Who  —  who  fooled  me?"  he  stammered. 

"Gaubert  —  the  fellow  that  calls  himself  Gaubert. 
He  and  his  friends.  They  fooled  you  away.  Then 
Gaubert  returned  with  a  tale  that  you  had  been  killed 
and  that  there  was  a  disturbance  in  the  Champs  aux 
Capuchins.  Monsieur  de  Tressan  was  here,  as  ill-luck 
would  have  it,  and  Gaubert  implored  him  to  send 
soldiers  thither  to  quell  the  riot.  He  dispatched  the 
escort.  I  sought  in  vain  to  stay  them.  He  would  not 
listen  to  me.  The  troopers  went,  and  then  Monsieur 
Gaubert  entered  the  inn,  to  join  Monsieur  de  Con- 
dillac  and  six  of  his  braves  who  were  waiting  there. 
They  overpowered  me,  and  carried  mademoiselle  off 
in  the  coach.  I  did  what  I  could,  but — " 

"How  long  have  they  been  gone?"  Garnache  inter- 
rupted him  to  inquire, 

"But  few  minutes  before  you  came." 

"It  would  be,  then,  the  coach  that  passed  me  near 
the  Porte  de  Savoie.  We  must  go  after  them,  Ra- 
becque.  I  made  a  short  cut  across  the  graveyard  of 
Saint  Francis,  or  I  must  have  met  the  escort.  Oh, 
perdition!"  he  cried,  smiting  his  clenched  right  hand 
into  his  open  left.  "To  have  so  much  good  work  un- 
done by  a  moment's  unguardedness."  Then  abruptly 
he  turned  on  his  heels.  "I  am  going  to  Monsieur  de 
Tressan,"  said  he  over  his  shoulder,  and  went  out. 

As  he  reached  the  threshold  of  the  porch,  the  escort 


122  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


rode  up  the  street,  returned  at  last.  At  sight  of  him 
the  sergeant  broke  into  a  cry  of  surprise. 

"At  least  you  are  safe,  monsieur,"  he  said.  "We 
had  heard  that  you  were  dead,  and  I  feared  it  must  be 
so,  for  all  that  the  rest  of  the  story  that  was  told  us 
was  clearly  part  of  a  very  foolish  jest." 

"Jest?  It  was  no  jest,  Vertudieu!"  said  Garnache 
grimly.  "You  had  best  return  to  the  Palais  Seneschal. 
I  have  no  further  need  of  an  escort,"  he  added  bit- 
terly. "I  shall  require  a  larger  force." 

And  he  stepped  out  into  the  rain,  which  had  begun 
again  a  few  minutes  earlier,  and  was  now  falling  in  a 
steady  downpour. 


CHAPTER  IX 


THE  SENESCHAL'S  ADVICE 

STRAIGHT  across  the  Palais  Seneschal  went 
Garnache.  And  sorely  though  his  temper  might 
already  have  been  tried  that  day,  tempestuously 
though  it  had  been  vented,  there  were  fresh  trials  in 
store  for  him,  fresh  storms  for  Tressan. 

"May  I  ask,  Monsieur  le  Seneschal,"  he  demanded 
arrogantly,  "to  what  end  it  was  that  you  permitted 
yourself  to  order  from  its  post  the  escort  you  had 
placed  under  my  command?" 

"To  what  end?"  returned  the  Seneschal,  between 
sorrow  and  indignation.  "Why,  to  the  end  that  it 
might  succour  you  if  still  in  time.  I  had  heard  that  if 
not  dead  already,  you  were  in  danger  of  your  life." 

The  answer  was  one  that  disarmed  Garnache,  in 
spite  of  his  mistrust  of  Tressan,  and  followed  as  it 
now  was  by  the  Seneschal's  profuse  expressions  of  joy 
at  seeing  Garnache  safe  and  well,  it  left  him  clearly 
unable  to  pursue  the  subject  of  his  grievance  in  this 
particular  connection.  Instead,  he  passed  on  to  enter- 
tain Tressan  with  the  recital  of  the  thing  that  had 
been  done;  and  in  reciting  it  his  anger  revived  again, 
nor  did  the  outward  signs  of  sympathetic  perturba- 
tion which  the  Seneschal  thought  it  judicious  to  dis- 
play do  aught  to  mollify  his  feelings. 

"And  now,  monsieur,"  he  concluded,  "there  re- 
mains but  one  course  to  be  pursued  —  to  return  in 
force,  and  compel  them  at  the  sword-point  to  sur- 
render me  mademoiselle.  That  accomplished,  I  shall 


SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


arrest  the  Dowager  and  her  son  and  every  jackanapes 
within  that  castle.  Her  men  can  lie  in  Grenoble  gaol 
to  be  dealt  with  by  yourself  for  supporting  her  in  an 
attempt  to  resist  the  Queen's  authority.  Madame 
and  her  son  shall  go  with  me  to  Paris  to  answer  there 
for  their  offence." 

The  Seneschal  looked  grave.  He  thoughtfully 
combed  his  beard  with  his  forefinger,  and  his  little 
eyes  peered  a  shade  fearfully  at  Garnache  through  his 
horn-rimmed  spectacles  —  Garnache  had  found  him 
at  his  never-failing  pretence  of  work. 

"Why,  yes,"  he  agreed,  speaking  slowly,  "that 
way  lies  your  duty." 

"I  rejoice,  monsieur,  to  hear  you  say  so.  For  I 
shall  need  your  aid." 

"My  aid?"  The  Seneschal's  face  assumed  a 
startled  look. 

"  I  shall  require  of  you  the  necessary  force  to  reduce 
that  garrison." 

The  Seneschal  blew  out  his  cheeks  almost  to  burst- 
ing point,  then  wagged  his  head  and  smiled  wistfully. 

"And  where,"  he  asked,  "am  I  to  find  such  a 
force?" 

"You  have  upwards  of  ten  score  men  in  quarters  at 
Grenoble." 

"If  I  had  those  men  —  which  I  have  not  —  what, 
think  you,  could  they  do  against  a  fortress  such  as 
Condillac?  Monsieur  deludes  himself.  If  they  resist, 
you'll  need  ten  times  that  number  to  bring  them  to 
their  senses.  They  are  well  victualled;  they  have  an 
excellent  water-supply.  My  friend,  they  would  just 
draw  up  the  bridge,  and  laugh  at  you  and  your  sol- 
diers from  the  ramparts." 


THE  SENESCHAL'S  ADVICE  125 

Garnache  looked  at  him  from  under  lowering 
brows.  But  for  all  his  mistrust  of  the  man  —  a  mis- 
trust most  excellently  founded  —  he  was  forced  to 
confess  that  there  was  wisdom  in  what  Tressan  said. 

"I'll  sit  down  and  besiege  them  if  need  be,"  he  an- 
nounced. 

Again  the  Seneschal  wagged  his  head.  "You  would 
have  to  be  prepared  to  spend  your  winter  there  in 
that  case,  and  it  can  be  cold  in  the  valley  of  Isere. 
Their  garrison  is  small  —  some  twenty  men  at  most; 
but  it  is  sufficient  for  their  defence,  and  not  too  many 
mouths  to  feed.  No,  no,  monsieur,  if  you  would  win 
your  way  by  force  you  must  count  upon  more  than 
ten  score  men." 

And  now  a  flash  of  inspiration  helped  Tressan.  It 
was  his  aim,  as  we  know,  to  run  with  the  hare  and 
hunt  with  the  hounds.  Break  with  Madame  de  Con- 
dillac  his  foolish  hopeful  heart  would  not  permit  him. 
Break  with  this  man,  who  personified  authority  and 
the  King,  he  dared  not.  He  had  sought  —  and  it  had 
given  him  much  to  do  —  to  steer  a  middle  course, 
serving  the  Dowager  and  appearing  not  to  withstand 
the  Parisian.  Now  it  almost  seemed  to  him  as  if  he 
were  come  to  an  impasse  beyond  which  he  could  no 
longer  pursue  that  course,  but  must  halt  and  de- 
clare his  side.  But  the  notion  that  now  occurred  to 
him  helped  him  to  win  through  this  difficulty.  For 
Madame  de  Condillac's  schemes  he  cared  not  a  jot; 
whether  they  came  safe  to  harbour  or  suffered  ship- 
wreck on  the  way  was  all  one  to  him;  whether  Valerie 
de  La  Vauvraye  married  Marius  de  Condillac  or  the 
meanest  cobbler  in  Grenoble  was,  similarly,  a  matter 
that  never  disturbed  his  mind.  He  would  not  even  be 


126  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


concerned  if  he,  himself,  were  to  help  the  Dowager's 
schemes  to  frustration,  so  long  as  she  were  to  remain 
in  ignorance  of  his  defection,  so  long  as  outwardly  he 
were  to  appear  faithful  to  her  interests. 

"Monsieur,"  said  he  gravely,  "the  only  course  that 
promises  you  success  is  to  return  to  Paris,  and,  raising 
sufficient  men,  with  guns  and  other  modern  siege  ap- 
pliances such  as  we  possess  not  here,  come  back  and 
batter  down  the  walls  of  Condillac." 

There  the  Seneschal  spoke  good  sense.  Garnache 
realized  it,  so  much  so  that  he  almost  began  to  doubt 
whether  he  had  not  done  the  man  an  injustice  in  be- 
lieving him  allied  to  the  other  party.  But,  however 
fully  he  might  perceive  the  wisdom  of  the  advice,  such 
a  step  was  one  that  must  wound  his  pride,  must  be  an 
acknowledgment  that  his  own  resources,  upon  which 
the  Queen  had  relied  when  she  sent  him  single-handed 
to  deal  with  this  situation,  had  proved  insufficient. 

He  took  a  turn  in  the  apartment  without  answer- 
ing, tugging  at  his  mustachios  and  pondering  the  situ- 
ation what  time  the  Seneschal  furtively  watched  him 
in  the  candle-light.  At  last  he  came  abruptly  to  a 
standstill  by  the  Seneschal's  writing-table,  immedi- 
ately opposite  Tressan.  His  hand  fell  to  his  side,  his 
eyes  took  on  a  look  of  determination. 

"As  a  last  resource  your  good  advice  may  guide  me, 
Monsieur  le  Seneschal,"  said  he.  "But  first  I'll  see 
what  can  be  done  with  such  men  as  you  have  here." 

"But  I  have  no  men,"  answered  Tressan,  dismayed 
to  see  the  failure  of  his  effort. 

Garnache  stared  at  him  in  an  unbelief  that  was  fast 
growing  to  suspicion.  "No  men?"  he  echoed  dully. 
"No  men?" 


THE  SENESCHAL'S  ADVICE 


"I  might  muster  a  score  —  no  more  than  that." 

"But,  monsieur,  it  is  within  my  knowledge  that 
you  have  at  least  two  hundred.  I  saw  at  least  some 
fifty  drawn  up  in  the  courtyard  below  here  yesterday 
morning." 

"I  had  them,  monsieur,"  the  Seneschal  made  haste 
to  cry,  his  hands  upheld,  his  body  leaning  forward 
over  his  table.  "I  had  them.  But,  unfortunately, 
certain  disturbances  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Mon- 
telimar  have  forced  me  to  part  with  them.  They 
were  on  the  point  of  setting  out  when  you  saw 
them." 

Garnache  looked  at  him  a  moment  without  speak- 
ing. Then,  sharply: 

"They  must  be  recalled,  monsieur,"  said  he. 

And  now  the  Seneschal  took  refuge  in  a  fine  pre- 
tence of  indignation. 

"Recalled?"  he  cried,  and  besides  indignation 
there  was  some  horror  in  his  voice.  "Recalled?  And 
for  what?  That  they  may  assist  you  in  obtaining 
charge  of  a  wretched  girl  who  is  so  headstrong  as  to 
wish  to  marry  other  than  her  guardians  have  deter- 
mined. A  pretty  affair  that,  as  God's  my  life!  And 
for  the  adjustment  of  such  a  family  dispute  as  this,  a 
whole  province  is  to  go  to  ruin,  a  conflagration  of  re- 
bellion is  to  spread  unquenched?  On  my  soul,  sir,  I 
begin  to  think  that  this  mission  of  yours  has  served  to 
turn  your  head.  You  begin  to  see  it  out  of  all  propor- 
tion to  its  size." 

"Monsieur,  it  may  have  turned  my  head,  or  it  may 
not;  but  I  shall  not  be  amazed  if  in  the  end  it  be  the 
means  of  losing  you  yours.  Tell  me  now:  What  is  the 
disturbance  you  speak  of  in  Montelimar?" 


128  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


That  was  a  question  all  Tressan's  ingenuity  could 
not  answer. 

"What  affair  is  it  of  yours?"  he  demanded.  "Are 
you  Seneschal  of  Dauphiny,  or  am  I  ?  If  I  tell  you 
that  there  is  a  disturbance,  let  that  suffice.  In  quell- 
ing it  I  do  but  attend  to  my  own  business.  Do  you 
attend  to  yours  —  which  seems  to  be  that  of  med- 
dling in  women's  matters." 

This  was  too  much.  There  was  such  odious  truth  in 
it  that  the  iron  sank  deep  into  Garnache's  soul.  The 
very  reflection  that  such  a  business  should  indeed  be 
his,  was  of  itself  enough  to  put  him  in  a  rage,  without 
having  it  cast  in  his  teeth  as  Tressan  had  none  too 
delicately  done. 

He  stormed  and  raged;  he  waved  his  arms  and 
thumped  the  table,  and  talked  of  cutting  men  to 
ribbons  —  among  which  men  no  doubt  he  counted 
my  Lord  the  Seneschal  of  Dauphiny.  But  from  the 
storm  of  fierce  invective,  of  threats  and  promises 
with  which  he  filled  the  air,  the  Seneschal  gathered 
with  satisfaction  the  one  clear  statement  that  he 
would  take  his  advice. 

"I'll  do  as  you  say,"  Garnache  had  ended.  "I'll 
get  me  back  to  Paris  as  fast  as  horse  can  carry  me. 
When  I  return  woe  betide  Condillac!  And  I  shall  send 
my  emissaries  into  the  district  of  Montelimar  to  in- 
quire into  these  disturbances  you  tell  of.  Woe  betide 
you  if  they  find  the  country  quiet.  You  shall  pay 
a  heavy  price  for  having  dispatched  your  soldiers 
thither  to  the  end  that  they  might  not  be  here  to 
further  the  Queen's  business." 

With  that  he  caught  up  his  rain-sodden  hat,  flung 
it  on  his  head,  and  stalked  out  of  the  room,  and,  so, 
out  of  the  Palace. 


THE  SENESCHAL'S  ADVICE 


He  left  Grenoble  next  morning,  and  it  was  a  very- 
tame  and  crestfallen  Garnache  who  quitted  the  Au- 
berge  du  Veau  qui  Tete  and  rode  out  of  the  town  to 
take  the  road  to  Paris.  How  they  would  laugh  at  him 
at  the  Luxembourg!  Not  even  an  affair  of  this  kind 
was  he  fit  to  carry  through;  not  even  as  a  meddler 
in  women's  matters  —  as  Tressan  had  called  him  — 
could  he  achieve  success.  Rabecque,  reflecting  his 
master's  mood  —  as  becomes  a  good  lackey  —  rode 
silent  and  gloomy  a  pace  or  two  in  the  rear. 

By  noon  they  had  reached  Voiron,  and  here,  at  a 
quiet  hostelry,  they  descended  to  pause  awhile  for 
rest  and  refreshment.  It  was  a  chill,  blustering  day, 
and  although  the  rain  held  off,  the  heavens  were  black 
with  the  promise  of  more  to  come.  There  was  a  fire 
burning  in  the  general-room  of  the  hostelry,  and 
Garnache  went  to  warm  him  at  its  cheerful  blaze* 
Moodily  he  stood  there,  one  hand  on  the  high  mantel- 
shelf, one  foot  upon  an  andiron,  his  eyes  upon  the 
flames. 

He  was  disconsolately  considering  his  position;  con- 
sidering how  utterly,  how  irrevocably  he  had  failed; 
pondering  the  gibes  he  would  have  to  stomach  on  his 
return  to  Paris,  the  ridicule  it  would  incumb  him  to 
live  down.  It  had  been  a  fine  thing  to  breathe  fire 
and  blood  and  vengeance  to  Tressan  yesterday,  to  tell 
him  of  the  great  deeds  he  would  perform  on  his  re- 
turn. It  was  odds  he  never  would  return.  They 
would  send  another  in  his  place,  if  indeed  they  sent  at 
all.  For,  after  all,  before  he  could  reach  Paris  and 
the  force  required  be  in  Dauphiny,  a  fortnight  must 
elapse,  let  them  travel  never  so  quickly.  By  that 
time  they  must  be  singularly  sluggish  at  Condillac  if 


SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


they  did  not  so  contrive  that  no  aid  that  came  should 
come  in  time  for  mademoiselle,  now  that  they  were 
warned  that  the  Queen  was  stirring  in  the  matter. 

Oh!  he  had  blundered  it  all  most  cursedly.  Had  he 
but  kept  his  temper  yesterday  at  Grenoble;  had  he 
but  had  the  wit  to  thwart  their  plans,  by  preserv- 
ing an  unruffled  front  to  insult,  he  might  have  won 
through  and  carried  mademoiselle  out  of  their  hands. 
As  it  was  —  !  he  let  his  arms  fall  to  his  sides  in  his 
miserable  despair. 

"Your  wine,  monsieur,"  said  Rabecque  at  his  el- 
bow. He  turned,  and  took  the  cup  of  mulled  drink 
from  his  servant.  The  beverage  warmed  him  in  body; 
but  it  would  need  a  butt  of  it  to  thaw  the  misery  from 
his  soul. 

"Rabecque,"  he  said  with  a  pathetic  grimness,  "I 
think  I  am  the  most  cursed  blunderer  that  ever  was 
entrusted  with  an  errand." 

The  thing  so  obsessed  his  mind  that  he  must  speak 
of  it,  if  it  be  only  to  his  lackey.  Rabecque's  sharp  face 
assumed  a  chastened  look.  He  sighed  most  dutifully. 
He  sought  for  words  of  consolation.  At  last: 

"At  least,  monsieur  has  made  them  fear  him  up 
there  at  Condillac,"  said  he. 

" Fear  me ?"  laughed  Garnache.  "Pish!  Deride  me, 
you  would  say." 

"Fear  you,  I  repeat,  monsieur.  Else  why  are  they 
at  such  pains  to  strengthen  the  garrison?" 

"  Eh  ? "  he  questioned.  But  his  tone  was  not  greatly 
interested.  "Are  they  doing  that?  Are  they  strength- 
ening it?  How  know  you?" 

"I  had  it  from  the  ostler  at  the  Veau  qui  Tete  that 
a  certain  Captain  Fortunio  —  an  Italian  soldier  of 


THE  SENESCHAL'S  ADVICE  131 

fortune  who  commands  the  men  at  Condillac  —  was 
at  the  Auberge  de  France  last  night,  offering  wine 
to  whomsoever  would  drink  with  him,  and  paying 
for  it  out  of  Madame  la  Marquise's  purse.  To  such 
as  accepted  his  hospitality  he  talked  of  the  glory  of 
a  military  career,  particularly  a  free-lance's;  and  to 
those  who  showed  interest  in  what  he  said  he  offered 
a  pike  in  his  company/' 

"Enrolled  he  many,  did  you  learn?" 

"Not  one,  monsieur,  the  ostler  told  me;  and  it 
seems  he  spent  the  evening  watching  him  weave  his 
spider's  web.  But  the  flies  were  over-wary.  They 
knew  whence  he  came;  they  knew  the  business  for 
which  he  desired  to  enrol  them  —  for  a  rumour  had 
gone  round  that  Condillac  was  in  rebellion  against  the 
Queen's  commands  —  and  there  were  none  so  des- 
perate at  the  Auberge  de  France  as  to  risk  their  necks 
by  enlisting,  no  matter  what  the  wage  he  offered." 

Garnache  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "No  matter," 
said  he.  "Get  me  another  cup  of  wine."  But  as 
Rabecque  turned  away  to  obey  him  there  came  a 
sudden  gleam  into  the  eye  of  Monsieur  de  Garnache, 
which  lightened  the  depression  of  his  countenance. 


CHAPTER  X 


THE  RECRUIT 

IN  the  great  hall  of  the  Chateau  de  Condillac  sat  the 
Dowager,  her  son,  and  the  Lord  Seneschal,  in  con- 
ference. 

It  was  early  in  the  afternoon  of  the  last  Thursday 
in  October,  exactly  a  week  since  Monsieur  de  Gar- 
nache  —  all  but  broken-hearted  at  the  failure  of  his 
mission  —  had  departed  from  Grenoble.  They  had 
dined,  and  the  table  was  still  strewn  with  vessels  and 
the  fragments  of  their  meal,  for  the  cloth  had  not  yet 
been  raised.  But  the  three  of  them  had  left  the  board 
—  the  Seneschal  with  all  that  reluctance  with  which 
he  was  wont  to  part  company  with  the  table,  no 
matter  how  perturbed  in  spirit  he  might  be  —  and 
they  had  come  to  group  themselves  about  the  great 
open  fireplace. 

A  shaft  of  pale  October  sunshine  entering  through 
the  gules  of  an  escutcheon  on  the  mullioned  windows 
struck  a  scarlet  light  into  silver  and  glass  upon  the 
forsaken  board. 

Madame  was  speaking.  She  was  repeating  words 
that  she  had  uttered  at  least  twenty  times  a  day  dur- 
ing the  past  week. 

"It  was  a  madness  to  let  that  fellow  go.  Had  we 
but  put  him  and  his  servant  out  of  the  way,  we  should 
be  able  now  to  sleep  tranquil  in  our  beds.  I  know  their 
ways  at  Court.  They  might  have  marvelled  a  little 
at  first  that  he  should  tarry  so  long  upon  his  errand, 


THE  RECRUIT 


133 


that  he  should  send  them  no  word  of  its  progress;  but 
presently,  seeing  him  no  more,  he  would  little  by- 
little  have  been  forgotten,  and  with  him  this  affair 
in  which  the  Queen  has  been  so  cursedly  ready  to 
meddle. 

"As  it  is,  the  fellow  will  go  back  hot  with  the  out- 
rage put  upon  him;  there  will  be  some  fine  talk  of  it 
in  Paris;  it  will  be  spoken  of  as  treason,  as  defiance 
of  the  King's  Majesty,  as  rebellion.  The  Parliament 
may  be  moved  to  make  outlaws  of  us,  and  the  end 
of  it  all  —  who  shall  foresee?" 

"It  is  a  long  distance  from  Condillac  to  Paris, 
madame,"  said  her  son,  with  a  shrug. 

"And  you  will  find  them  none  so  ready  to  send 
soldiers  all  this  way,  Marquise,"  the  Seneschal  com- 
forted her. 

"Bah!  You  make  too  sure  of  your  security.  You 
make  too  sure  of  what  they  will  do,  what  leave  un- 
done. Time  will  show,  my  friends;  and,  mort-dieul  I 
am  much  at  fault  if  you  come  not  both  to  echo  my 
regret  that  we  did  not  dispose  of  Monsieur  de  Gar- 
nache  and  his  lackey  when  we  had  them  in  our 
power." 

Her  eye  fell  with  sinister  promise  upon  Tressan, 
who  shivered  slightly  and  spread  his  hands  to  the 
blaze,  as  though  his  shiver  had  been  of  cold.  But 
Marius  did  not  so  readily  grow  afraid. 

"Madame,"  he  said,  "at  the  worst  we  can  shut 
our  gates  and  fling  defiance  at  them.  We  are  well- 
manned,  and  Fortunio  is  seeking  fresh  recruits." 

" Seeking  them,  yes,"  she  sneered.  "For  a  week  has 
the  fellow  been  spending  money  like  water,  addling 
the  brains  of  half  Grenoble  with  the  best  wine  at  the 


i34  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


Auberge  de  France,  yet  not  a  single  recruit  has  come 
in,  so  far." 

Marius  laughed.  "Your  pessimism  leads  you  into 
rash  conclusions,"  he  cried.  "You  are  wrong.  One 
recruit  has  come  in." 

"One!"  she  echoed.  "A  thousand  devils!  A  brave 
number  that!  A  fine  return  for  the  river  of  wine  with 
which  we  have  washed  the  stomachs  of  Grenoble." 

"Still,  it  is  a  beginning,"  ventured  the  Seneschal. 

"Aye,  and,  no  doubt,  an  ending,"  she  flashed  back 
at  him.  "And  what  manner  of  fool  may  this  one  be, 
whose  fortunes  were  so  desperate  that  he  could  throw 
them  in  with  ours?" 

"He  is  an  Italian  —  a  Piedmontese  who  has 
tramped  across  Savoy  and  was  on  his  way  to  Paris  to 
make  his  fortune,  when  Fortunio  caught  him  and 
made  it  clear  to  him  that  his  fortune  was  made  for 
him  at  Condillac.  He  is  a  lusty,  stalwart  fellow, 
speaking  no  word  of  French,  who  was  drawn  to  For- 
tunio by  discovering  in  him  a  fellow-countryman." 

Mockery  flashed  from  the  Dowager's  beautiful  eyes. 

"In  that  you  have  the  reason  of  his  enrolling  him- 
self. He  knew  no  word  of  French,  poor  devil,  so  could 
not  learn  how  rash  his  venture  was.  Could  we  find 
more  such  men  as  this  one  it  might  be  well.  But 
where  shall  we  find  them?  Pish!  my  dear  Marius, 
matters  are  little  mended,  nor  ever  will  be,  for  the 
mistake  we  made  in  allowing  Garnache  to  go  his 
ways." 

"Madame,"  again  ventured  Tressan,  "I  think  that 
you  want  for  hopefulness." 

"At  least,  I  do  not  want  for  courage,  Monsieur  le 
Comte,"  she  answered  him;  "and  I  promise  you  that 


THE  RECRUIT 


*35 


while  I  live  —  to  handle  a  sword  if  need  be  —  no 
Paris  men  shall  set  foot  in  Condillac." 

"Aye,"  grumbled  Marius,  "you  can  contemplate 
that,  and  it  is  all  you  do  contemplate.  You  will  not 
see,  madame,  that  our  position  is  far  from  desperate; 
that,  after  all,  there  may  be  no  need  to  resist  the 
King.  It  is  three  months  since  we  had  news  of  Flori- 
mond.  Much  may  happen  in  three  months  when  a 
man  is  warring.  It  may  well  be  that  he  is  dead." 

"I  wish  I  knew  he  was  —  and  damned,"  she 
snapped,  with  a  tightening  of  her  scarlet  lips. 

"Yes,"  agreed  Marius,  with  a  sigh,  "that  were  an 
end  to  all  our  troubles." 

"I'm  none  so  sure.  There  is  still  mademoiselle, 
with  her  new-formed  friends  in  Paris  —  may  a  pes- 
tilence blight  them  all!  There  are  still  the  lands  of 
La  Vauvraye  to  lose.  The  only  true  end  to  our 
troubles  as  they  stand  at  present  lies  in  your  marry- 
ing this  headstrong  baggage." 

"That  the  step  should  be  rendered  impossible,  you 
can  but  blame  yourself,"  Marius  reminded  her. 

"How  so?"  she  cried,  turning  sharply  upon  him. 

"Had  you  kept  friends  with  the  Church,  had  you 
paid  tithes  and  saved  us  from  this  cursed  Interdict,  we 
should  have  no  difficulty  in  getting  hither  a  priest, 
and  settling  the  matter  out  of  hand,  be  Valerie  willing 
or  not." 

She  looked  at  him,  scorn  kindling  in  her  glance. 
Then  she  swung  round  to  appeal  to  Tressan. 

"You  hear  him,  Count,"  said  she.  "There  is  a 
lover  for  you!  He  would  wed  his  mistress  whether 
she  love  him  or  not  —  and  he  has  sworn  to  me  that  he 
loves  the  girl." 


i36  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


"How  else  should  the  thing  be  done  since  she  op- 
poses it?"  asked  Marius,  sulkily. 

"How  else?  Do  you  ask  me  how  else?  God!  Were 
I  a  man,  and  had  I  your  shape  and  face,  there  is  no 
woman  in  the  world  should  withstand  me  if  I  set  my 
heart  on  her.  It  is  address  you  lack.  You  are  clumsy 
as  a  lout  where  a  woman  is  concerned.  Were  I  in  your 
place,  I  had  taken  her  by  storm  three  months  ago, 
when  first  she  came  to  us.  I  had  carried  her  out  of 
Condillac,  out  of  France,  over  the  border  into  Savoy, 
where  there  are  no  Interdicts  to  plague  you,  and 
there  I  would  have  married  her." 

Marius  frowned  darkly,  but  before  he  could  speak, 
Tressan  was  insinuating  a  compliment  to  the  Marquise. 

"True,  Marius,"  he  said,  with  pursed  lips.  "Na- 
ture has  been  very  good  to  you  in  that  she  has  made 
you  the  very  counterpart  of  your  lady  mother.  You 
are  as  comely  a  gentleman  as  is  to  be  found  in  France 
—  or  out  of  it." 

"Pish!"  snapped  Marius,  too  angered  by  the  reflec- 
tion cast  upon  his  address,  to  be  flattered  by  their 
praises  of  his  beauty.  "It  is  an  easy  thing  to  talk;  an 
easy  thing  to  set  up  arguments  when  we  consider  but 
the  half  of  a  question.  You  forget,  madame,  that 
Valerie  is  betrothed  to  Florimond  and  that  she  clings 
faithfully  to  her  betrothal." 

"Vertudieul"  swore  the  Marquise,  "and  what  is  this 
betrothal,  what  this  faithfulness?  She  has  not  seen 
her  betrothed  for  three  years.  She  was  a  child  at  the 
time  of  their  fiangailles.  Think  you  her  faithfulness  to 
him  is  the  constancy  of  a  woman  to  her  lover?  Go 
your  ways,  you  foolish  boy.  It  is  but  the  constancy  to 
a  word,  to  the  wishes  of  her  father.  Think  you  con- 


THE  RECRUIT 


137 


stancy  that  has  no  other  base  than  that  would  stand 
between  her  and  any  man  who  —  as  you  might  do, 
had  you  the  address  —  could  make  her  love  him  ? " 

"I  do  say  so,"  answered  Marius  firmly. 

She  smiled  the  pitying  smile  of  one  equipped  with 
superior  knowledge  when  confronted  with  an  obsti- 
nate, uninformed  mind. 

"There  is  a  droll  arrogance  about  you,  Marius," 
she  told  him,  quietly.  "You,  a  fledgling,  would  teach 
me,  a  woman,  the  ways  of  a  woman's  heart!  It  is  a 
thing  you  may  live  to  regret." 

"As  how?"  he  asked. 

"Once  already  has  mademoiselle  contrived  to  cor- 
rupt one  of  our  men,  and  send  him  to  Paris  with  a 
letter.  Out  of  that  has  sprung  our  present  trouble. 
Another  time  she  may  do  better.  When  she  shall 
have  bribed  another  to  assist  her  to  escape;  when  she, 
herself,  shall  have  made  off  to  the  shelter  of  the 
Queen-mother,  perhaps  you  will  regret  that  my 
counsel  should  have  fallen  upon  barren  ground." 

"It  is  to  prevent  any  such  attempt  that  we  have 
placed  her  under  guard,"  said  he.  "You  are  forget- 
ting that." 

"Forgetting  it?  Not  I.  But  what  assurance  have 
you  that  she  will  not  bribe  her  guard?" 

Marius  laughed,  rose,  and  pushed  back  his  chair. 

"Madame,"  said  he,  "you  are  back  at  your  con- 
templation of  the  worst  side  of  this  affair;  you  are 
persisting  in  considering  only  how  we  may  be 
thwarted.  But  set  your  mind  at  rest.  Gilles  is  her 
sentinel.  Every  night  he  sleeps  in  her  anteroom.  He 
is  Fortunio's  most  trusted  man.  She  will  not  corrupt 
him." 


138  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


The  Dowager  smiled  pensively,  her  eyes  upon 
the  fire.  Suddenly  she  raised  them  to  his  face. 
"Berthaud  was  none  the  less  trusted.  Yet,  with 
no  more  than  a  promise  of  reward  at  some  future 
time  should  she  succeed  in  escaping  from  us,  did  she 
bribe  him  to  carry  her  letter  to  the  Queen.  What 
happened  to  Berthaud  that  may  not  happen  to 
Gilles?" 

"You  might  change  her  sentry  nightly,"  put  in  the 
Seneschal. 

"Yes,  if  we  knew  whom  we  could  trust;  who  would 
be  above  corruption.  As  it  is"  —  she  shrugged  her 
shoulders  —  "that  would  be  but  to  afford  her  oppor- 
tunities to  bribe  them  one  by  one  until  they  were  all 
ready  to  act  in  concert." 

"Why  need  she  any  sentinel  at  all? "  asked  Tressan, 
with  some  show  of  sense. 

"To  ward  off  possible  traitors,"  she  told  him,  and 
Marius  smiled  and  wagged  his  head. 

"Madame  is  never  done  foreseeing  the  worst, 
monsieur." 

"Which  shows  my  wisdom.  The  men  in  our  garri- 
son are  mercenaries,  all  attached  to  us  only  because 
we  pay  them.  They  all  know  who  she  is  and  what  her 
wealth." 

"Pity  you  have  not  a  man  who  is  deaf  and  dumb," 
said  Tressan,  half  in  jest.  But  Marius  looked  up  sud- 
'  denly,  his  eyes  serious. 

"We  have  as  good,"  said  he.  "There  is  the  Italian 
knave  Fortunio  enrolled  yesterday,  as  I  have  told 
you.  He  knows  neither  her  wealth  nor  her  identity; 
nor  if  he  did  could  he  enter  into  traffic  with  her,  for  he 
knows  no  French,  and  she  no  Italian." 


THE  RECRUIT 


139 


The  Dowager  clapped  her  hands.  "  The  very  man ! " 
she  cried. 

But  Marius,  either  from  sheer  perverseness,  or  be- 
cause he  did  not  share  her  enthusiasm,  made  answer: 
"I  have  faith  in  Grilles." 

"Yes,"  she  mocked  him,  "and  you  had  faith  in 
Berthaud.  Oh,  if  you  have  faith  in  Gilles,  let  him  re- 
main; let  no  more  be  said." 

The  obstinate  boy  took  her  advice,  and  shifted  the 
subject,  speaking  to  Tressan  of  some  trivial  business 
connected  with  the  Seneschalship. 

But  madame,  woman-like,  returned  to  the  matter 
whose  abandoning  she  had  herself  suggested.  Marius, 
for  all  his  affected  disdain  of  it,  viewed  it  with  a  certain 
respect.  And  so  in  the  end  they  sent  for  the  recruit. 

Fortunio  —  who  was  no  other  than  the  man  Gar- 
nache  had  known  as  "  Sanguinetti "  —  brought  him, 
still  clad  in  the  clothes  in  which  he  had  come.  He 
was  a  tall,  limber  fellow,  with  a  very  swarthy  skin  and 
black,  oily-looking  hair  that  fell  in  short  ringlets  about 
his  ears  and  neck,  and  a  black,  drooping  mustache 
which  gave  him  a  rather  hang-dog  look.  There  was  a 
thick  stubble  of  beard  of  several  days'  growth  about 
his  chin  and  face;  his  eyes  were  furtive  in  their 
glances,  but  of  a  deep  blue  that  contrasted  oddly  with 
his  blackness  when  he  momentarily  raised  them. 

He  wore  a  tattered  jerkin,  and  his  legs,  in  default  of 
stockings,  were  swathed  in  soiled  bandages  and  cross- 
gartered  from  ankle  to  knee.  He  stood  in  a  pair  of 
wooden  shoes,  from  one  of  which  peeped  forth  some 
wisps  of  straw,  introduced,  no  doubt,  to  make  the 
footgear  fit.  He  slouched  and  shuffled  in  his  walk, 
and  he  was  unspeakably  dirty.  Nevertheless,  he  was 


SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


girt  with  a  sword  in  a  ragged  scabbard  hanging  from 
a  frayed  and  shabby  belt  of  leather. 

Madame  scanned  him  with  interest.  The  fastidious 
Marius  eyed  him  with  disgust.  The  Seneschal  peered 
at  him  curiously  through  shortsighted  eyes. 

"I  do  not  think  I  have  ever  seen  a  dirtier  ruffian," 
said  he. 

"I  like  his  nose,"  said  madame  quietly.  "It  is  the 
nose  of  an  intrepid  man." 

"It  reminds  me  of  Garnache's,"  laughed  the  Sen- 
eschal. 

"You  flatter  the  Parisian,"  commented  Marius. 

The  mercenary,  meanwhile,  stood  blandly  smiling 
at  the  party,  showing  at  least  a  fine  array  of  teeth, 
and  wearing  the  patient,  attentive  air  of  one  who  real- 
izes himself  to  be  under  discussion,  yet  does  not  un- 
derstand what  is  being  said. 

"A  countryman  of  yours,  Fortunio?"  sneered 
Marius. 

The  captain,  whose  open,  ingenuous  countenance 
dissembled  as  villainous  a  heart  as  ever  beat  in  the 
breast  of  any  man,  disowned  the  compatriotism  with 
a  smile. 

"Hardly,  monsieur,"  said  he.  "'Battista'  is  a 
Piedmontese."  Fortunio  himself  was  a  Venetian. 

"Is  he  to  be  relied  upon,  think  you?"  asked  ma- 
dame. Fortunio  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  spread 
his  hands.  It  was  not  his  habit  to  trust  any  man 
inordinately. 

"He  is  an  old  soldier,"  said  he.  "He  has  trailed  a 
pike  in  the  Neapolitan  wars.  I  have  cross-questioned 
him,  and  found  his  answers  bore  out  the  truth  of 
what  he  said." 


THE  RECRUIT 


141 


"And  what  brings  him  to  France?"  asked  Tressan. 

The  captain  smiled  again,  and  there  came  again 
that  expressive  shrug  of  his.  "A  little  over-ready  with 
the  steel,"  said  he. 

They  told  Fortunio  that  they  proposed  to  place  him 
sentry  over  mademoiselle  instead  of  Gilles,  as  the 
Italian's  absolute  lack  of  French  would  ensure  against 
corruption.  The  captain  readily  agreed  with  them. 
It  would  be  a  wise  step.  The  Italian  fingered  his 
tattered  hat,  his  eyes  on  the  ground. 

Suddenly  madame  spoke  to  him.  She  asked  him 
for  some  account  of  himself  and  whence  he  came, 
using  the  Italian  tongue,  of  which  she  had  a  passing 
knowledge.  He  followed  her  questions  very  atten- 
tively, at  times  with  apparent  difficulty,  his  eyes  on 
her  face,  his  head  craned  a  little  forward. 

Now  and  then  Fortunio  had  to  intervene,  to  make 
plainer  to  this  ignorant  Piedmontese  mind  the  Mar- 
quise's questions.  His  answers  came  in  a  deep, 
hoarse  voice,  slurred  by  the  accent  of  Piedmont,  and 
madame  —  her  knowledge  of  Italian  being  imperfect 
—  had  frequently  to  have  recourse  to  Fortunio  to  dis- 
cover the  meaning  of  what  he  said. 

At  last  she  dismissed  the  pair  of  them,  bidding  the 
captain  see  that  he  was  washed  and  more  fittingly 
clothed. 

An  hour  later,  after  the  Seneschal  had  taken  his 
departure  to  ride  home  to  Grenoble,  it  was  madame 
herself,  accompanied  by  Marius  and  Fortunio,  who 
conducted  Battista  —  such  was  the  name  the  Italian 
had  given  —  to  the  apartments  above,  where  made- 
moiselle was  now  confined  practically  a  prisoner. 


CHAPTER  XI 


VALERIE'S  GAOLER 

MY  child,"  said  the  Dowager,  and  her  eyes 
dwelt  on  Valerie  with  a  look  of  studied  gen- 
tleness, "why  will  you  not  be  reasonable?" 

The  constant  reflection  that  Garnache  was  at  large, 
making  his  way  back  to  Paris  to  stir  up  vengeance  for 
the  outrage  put  upon  him,  was  not  without  a  certain 
chastening  effect  upon  the  Dowager.  She  had  a  way 
of  saying  that  she  had  as  good  a  stomach  for  a  fight  as 
any  man  in  France,  and  a  fight  there  should  be  if  it 
came  to  it  and  Garnache  should  return  to  assail  Con- 
dillac.  Yet  a  certain  pondering  of  the  consequences,  a 
certain  counting  of  the  cost  —  ordinarily  unusual  to 
her  nature  —  led  her  to  have  recourse  to  persuasion 
and  to  a  gentleness  no  less  unusual. 

Valerie's  eyes  were  raised  to  hers  with  a  look  that 
held  more  scorn  than  wonder.  They  were  standing  in 
the  antechamber  of  Valerie's  room.  Yonder  at  his 
post  lounged  the  recruit  "Battista,"  looking  a  trifle 
cleaner  than  when  first  he  had  been  presented  to  the 
Marquise,  but  still  not  clean  enough  for  a  lady's  ante- 
chamber. He  was  leaning  stolidly  against  the  sill  of 
the  window,  his  eyes  on  the  distant  waters  of  the 
Isere,  which  shone  a  dull  copper  colour  in  the  after- 
glow of  the  October  sunset.  His  face  was  vacant,  his 
eyes  pensive,  as  he  stood  there  undisturbed  by  the 
flow  of  a  language  he  did  not  understand. 

Fortunio  and  Marius  had  departed,  and  the  Mar- 


VALERIE'S  GAOLER 


143 


quise  —  played  upon  by  her  unusual  tremors  —  had 
remained  behind  for  a  last  word  with  the  obstinate 
girl- 

"In  what,  madame,"  asked  Valerie,  "does  my  con- 
duct fall  short  of  reasonableness?" 

The  Dowager  made  a  movement  of  impatience.  If 
at  every  step  she  were  to  be  confronted  by  these 
questions,  which  had  in  them  a  savour  of  challenge, 
she  was  wasting  time  in  remaining. 

"You  are  unreasonable,  in  this  foolish  clinging  to  a 
promise  given  for  you." 

"Given  by  me,  madame,"  the  girl  amended,  know- 
ing well  to  what  promise  the  Dowager  referred. 

"Given  by  you,  then;  but  given  at  an  age  when  you 
could  not  understand  the  nature  of  it.  They  had  no 
right  to  bind  you  so." 

"If  it  is  for  any  to  question  that  right,  it  is  for  me," 
Valerie  made  answer,  her  eyes  ever  meeting  the  Dow- 
ager's unflinchingly.  "And  I  am  content  to  leave  that 
right  unquestioned.  I  am  content  to  fill  the  promise 
given.  In  honour  I  could  not  do  less." 

"Ah!  In  honour!"  The  Dowager  sighed.  Then 
she  came  a  step  nearer,  and  her  face  grew  sweetly 
wistful.  "  But  your  heart,  child;  what  of  your  heart?" 

"My  heart  concerns  myself.  I  am  the  betrothed  of 
Florimond  —  that  is  all  that  concerns  the  world  and 
you.  I  respect  and  admire  him  more  than  any  living 
man,  and  I  shall  be  proud  to  become  his  wife  when  he 
returns,  as  his  wife  I  shall  become  in  spite  of  all  that 
you  and  your  son  may  do." 

The  Dowager  laughed  softly,  as  if  to  herself. 

"And  if  I  tell  you  that  Florimond  is  dead?" 

"When  you  give  me  proof  of  that,  I  shall  believe 


SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


it,"  the  girl  replied.  The  Marquise  looked  at  her,  her 
face  manifesting  no  offence  at  the  almost  insulting 
words. 

"And  if  I  were  to  lay  that  proof  before  you?"  she 
inquired,  sadly  almost. 

Valerie's  eyes  opened  a  trifle  wider,  as  if  in  appre- 
hension. But  her  answer  was  prompt  and  her  voice 
steady.  "It  still  could  have  no  effect  upon  my  atti- 
tude towards  your  son." 

"This  is  foolishness,  Valerie — " 

"In  you  it  is,  madame,"  the  girl  broke  in;  "a  fool- 
ishness to  think  you  can  constrain  a  girl,  compel  her 
affections,  command  her  love,  by  such  means  as  you 
have  employed  towards  me.  You  think  that  it  pre- 
disposes me  to  be  wooed,  that  it  opens  my  heart  to 
your  son,  to  see  myself  gaoled  that  he  may  pay  me  his 
court." 

"Gaoled,  child?  Who  gaols  you?"  the  Dowager 
cried,  as  if  the  most  surprising  utterance  had  fallen 
from  Valerie's  lips. 

Mademoiselle  smiled  in  sorrow  and  some  scorn. 

"Am  I  not  gaoled,  then?"  she  asked.  "What  call 
you  this?  What  does  that  fellow  there?  He  is  to  lie 
outside  my  door  at  nights  to  see  that  none  holds  com- 
munication with  me.  He  is  to  go  with  me  each  morn- 
ing to  the  garden,  when,  by  your  gracious  charity  I 
take  the  air.  Sleeping  and  waking  the  man  is  ever 
within  hearing  of  any  word  that  I  may  utter  — " 

"  But  if  he  has  no  French ! "  the  Dowager  protested. 

"To  ensure,  no  doubt,  against  any  attempt  of 
mine  to  win  him  to  my  side,  to  induce  him  to  aid  me 
escape  from  this  prison.  Oh,  madame,  I  tell  you  you 
do  but  waste  time,  and  you  punish  me  and  harass 


VALERIE'S  GAOLER 


145 


yourself  to  little  purpose.  Had  Marius  been  such  a 
man  as  I  might  have  felt  it  in  my  nature  to  love  — 
which  Heaven  forbid !  —  these  means  by  which  you 
have  sought  to  bring  that  thing  about  could  but  have 
resulted  in  making  me  hate  him  as  I  do." 

The  Dowager's  fears  were  banished  from  her  mind 
at  that,  and  with  them  went  all  thought  of  conciliat- 
ing Valerie.  Anger  gleamed  in  her  eyes;  the  set  of 
her  lips  grew  suddenly  sneering  and  cruel,  so  that  the 
beauty  of  her  face  but  served  to  render  it  hateful  the 
more. 

"So  that  you  hate  him,  ma  mie?"  a  ripple  of  mock- 
ery on  the  current  of  her  voice,  "  and  he  a  man  such  as 
any  girl  in  France  might  be  proud  to  wed.  Well,  well, 
you  are  not  to  be  constrained,  you  say."  And  the 
Marquise's  laugh  was  menacing  and  unpleasant. 
"Be  not  so  sure,  mademoiselle.  Be  not  so  sure  of 
that.  It  may  well  betide  that  you  shall  come  to  beg 
upon  your  knees  for  this  alliance  with  a  man  whom 
you  tell  me  that  you  hate.  Be  not  so  sure  you  cannot 
be  constrained." 

Their  eyes  met;  both  women  were  white  to  the  lips, 
but  it  was  curbed  passion  in  the  one,  and  deadly  fear 
in  the  other;  for  what  the  Dowager's  words  left  un- 
said her  eyes  most  eloquently  conveyed.  The  girl 
shrank  back,  her  hands  clenched,  her  lip  caught  in  her 
teeth. 

"There  is  a  God  in  heaven,  madame,"  she  re- 
minded the  Marquise. 

"Aye  —  in  heaven,"  laughed  the  Marquise,  turn- 
ing to  depart.  She  paused  by  the  door,  which  the 
Italian  had  sprung  forward  to  open  for  her. 

"  Marius  shall  take  the  air  with  you  in  the  morn- 


146  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


ing  if  it  is  fine.  Ponder  meanwhile  what  I  have  said." 

"Does  this  man  remain  here,  madame?"  inquired 
the  girl,  vainly  seeking  to  render  her  voice  steady. 

"In  the  outer  anteroom  is  his  place:  but  as  the  key 
of  this  room  is  on  his  side  of  the  door,  he  may  enter 
here  when  he  so  pleases,  or  when  he  thinks  that  he  has 
reason  to.  If  the  sight  of  him  displeases  you,  you  may 
lock  yourself  from  it  in  your  own  chamber  yonder." 

The  same  she  said  in  Italian  to  the  man,  who  bowed 
impassively,  and  followed  the  Dowager  into  the  outer 
room,  closing  the  door  upon  mademoiselle.  It  was  a 
chamber  almost  bare  of  furniture,  save  for  a  table  and 
chair  which  had  been  placed  there,  so  that  the  gaoler 
might  take  his  meals. 

The  man  followed  the  Marquise  across  the  bare 
floor,  their  steps  resounding  as  they  went,  and  he 
held  the  outer  door  for  her. 

Without  another  word  she  left  him,  and  where  he 
stood  he  could  hear  her  steps  as  she  tripped  down  the 
winding  staircase  of  stone.  At  last  the  door  of  the 
courtyard  closed  with  a  bang,  and  the  grating  of  a 
key  announced  to  the  mercenary  that  he  and  his 
charge  were  both  imprisoned  in  that  tower  of  the 
Chateau  de  Condillac. 

Left  alone  in  the  anteroom,  mademoiselle  crossed 
to  the  window  and  dropped  limply  into  a  chair.  Her 
face  was  still  very  white,  her  heart  beating  tumultu- 
ously,  for  the  horrid  threat  that  had  been  conveyed  in 
the  Dowager's  words  had  brought  her  her  first  thrill 
of  real  fear  since  the  beginning  of  this  wooing-by- 
force  three  months  ago,  a  wooing  which  had  become 
more  insistent  and  less  like  a  wooing  day  by  day,  until 
it  had  culminated  in  her  present  helpless  position. 


VALERIE'S  GAOLER 


147 


She  was  a  strong-souled,  high-spirited  girl,  but  to- 
night hope  seemed  extinguished  in  her  breast.  Flori- 
mond,  too,  seemed  to  have  abandoned  her.  Either  he 
had  forgotten  her,  or  he  was  dead,  as  the  Dowager 
said.  Which  might  be  the  true  state  of  things  she  did 
not  greatly  care.  The  realization  of  how  utterly  she 
was  in  the  power  of  Madame  de  Condillac  and  her 
son,  and  the  sudden  chance  discovery  of  how  un- 
scrupulously that  power  might  be  wielded,  filled  her 
mind  to  the  exclusion  of  all  else. 

By  the  window  she  sat,  watching,  without  heeding 
them,  the  fading  colours  in  the  sky.  She  was  aban- 
doned to  these  monsters,  and  it  seemed  they  would 
devour  her.  She  could  hope  for  no  help  from  outside 
since  they  had  —  as  she  believed  —  slain  Monsieur 
de  Garnache.  Her  mind  dwelt  for  a  moment  on  that 
glimpse  of  rescue  that  had  been  hers  a  week  ago,  upon 
the  few  hours  of  liberty  which  she  had  enjoyed,  but 
which  only  seemed  now  to  increase  the  dark  hopeless- 
ness of  her  imprisonment. 

Again  with  the  eyes  of  her  mind  she  beheld  that 
grim,  stalwart  figure,  saw  his  great  nose,  his  greying 
hair,  his  fierce  mustachios  and  his  stern,  quick  eyes. 
Again  she  heard  the  rasp  of  his  metallic  voice  with  its 
brisk  derision.  She  saw  him  in  the  hall  below,  his  foot 
upon  the  neck  of  that  popinjay  of  Condillac  daring 
them  all  to  draw  a  breath,  should  he  forbid  it;  again 
in  fancy  she  rode  on  the  withers  of  his  horse  at  the 
gallop  towards  Grenoble.  A  sigh  escaped  her.  Surely 
that  was  the  first  man  who  was  indeed  a  man  she  had 
ever  set  eyes  on  since  her  father  died.  Had  Garnache 
been  spared,  she  would  have  felt  courage  and  she 
would  have  hoped,  for  there  was  something  about 


i48  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


Aim  that  suggested  energy  and  resource  such  as  it  is 
good  to  lean  upon  in  times  of  stress.  Again  she  heard 
that  brisk,  metallic  voice:  "Are  you  content,  ma- 
dame?  Have  you  had  fine  deeds  enough  for  one 
day?" 

And  then,  breaking  in  upon  her  musings  came  the 
very  voice  of  her  day-dream,  so  suddenly,  sounding 
so  natural  and  lifelike  that  she  almost  screamed,  so 
startled  was  she. 

"Mademoiselle,"  it  said,  "I  beg  that  you'll  not 
utterly  lose  heart.  I  have  come  back  to  the  thing  Her 
Majesty  bade  me  do,  and  I'll  do  it,  in  spite  of  that 
tigress  and  her  cub." 

She  sat  still  as  a  statue,  scarce  breathing,  her  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  violet  sky.  The  voice  had  ceased,  but 
still  she  sat  on.  Then  it  was  slowly  borne  in  upon  her 
that  that  was  no  dream-voice,  no  trick  of  her  over- 
burdened mind.  A  voice,  a  living,  actual  voice  had 
uttered  those  words  in  this  room,  here  at  her  elbow. 

She  turned,  and  again  she  almost  screamed;  for 
there,  just  behind  her,  his  glittering  eyes  fixed  upon 
her  with  singular  intentness,  stood  the  swarthy, 
black-haired  Italian  gaoler  they  had  given  her  be- 
cause he  had  no  French. 

He  had  come  up  so  quietly  behind  her  that  she  had 
not  heard  his  approach,  and  he  was  leaning  forward 
now,  with  an  odd  suggestion  of  crouching  in  his  atti- 
tude, like  a  beast  about  to  spring.  Yet  his  gaze  riv- 
eted hers  as  with  a  fascination.  And  so,  while  she 
looked,  his  lips  moved,  and  from  them,  in  that  same 
voice  of  her  dreams,  came  from  this  man  who  had  no 
French,  the  words: 

"  Be  not  afraid,  mademoiselle.  I  am  that  blunderer, 


VALERIE'S  GAOLER 


149 


Garnache,  that  unworthy  fool  whose  temper  ruined 
what  chance  of  saving  you  he  had  a  week  ago." 

She  stared  like  one  going  mad. 

"Garnache!"  said  she,  in  a  husky  whisper.  "You 
Garnache?" 

Yet  the  voice,  she  knew,  was  Garnache's  and  none 
other.  It  was  a  voice  not  easily  mistaken.  And  now, 
as  she  looked  and  looked,  she  saw  that  the  man's  nose 
was  Garnache's,  though  oddly  stained,  and  those 
keen  eyes,  they  were  Garnache's  too.  But  the  hair 
that  had  been  brown  and  flecked  with  grey  was  black; 
the  reddish  mustachios  that  had  bristled  like  a  moun- 
tain cat's  were  black,  too,  and  they  hung  limp  and 
hid  from  sight  the  fine  lines  of  his  mouth.  A  hideous 
stubble  of  unshorn  beard  defaced  his  chin  and  face, 
and  altered  its  sharp  outline;  and  the  clear,  healthy 
skin  that  she  remembered  was  now  a  dirty  brown. 

Suddenly  the  face  smiled,  and  it  was  a  smile  that 
reassured  her  and  drove  away  the  last  doubt  that  she 
had.  She  was  on  her  feet  in  an  instant. 

"Monsieur,  monsieur,"  was  all  that  she  could  say; 
but  her  longing  was  to  fling  her  arms  about  the  neck 
of  this  man,  as  she  might  have  flung  them  about  the 
neck  of  a  brother  or  a  father,  and  sob  out  upon  his 
shoulder  the  sudden  relief  and  revulsion  that  his  pres- 
ence brought. 

Garnache  saw  something  of  her  agitation,  and  to 
relieve  it  he  smiled  and  began  to  tell  her  the  circum- 
stances of  his  return  and  his  presentation  to  Madame 
as  a  knave  who  had  no  French. 

"Fortune  was  very  good  to  me,  mademoiselle,"  said 
he.  "I  had  little  hope  that  such  a  face  as  mine  could 
be  disguised,  but  I  take  no  pride  in  what  you  see.  It 


SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


is  the  handiwork  of  Rabecque,  the  most  ingenious 
lackey  that  ever  served  a  foolish  master.  It  helped 
me  that  having  been  ten  years  in  Italy  when  I  was 
younger,  I  acquired  the  language  so  well  as  to  be  able 
to  impose  even  upon  Fortunio.  In  that  lay  a  cir- 
cumstance which  at  once  disarmed  suspicion,  and  if  I 
stay  not  so  long  as  it  shall  take  the  dye  to  wear  from 
my  hair  and  beard  and  the  staining  from  my  face,  I 
shall  have  little  to  fear." 

"But,  monsieur,"  she  cried,  "you  have  everything 
to  fear!"  And  alarm  grew  in  her  eyes. 

But  he  laughed  again  for  answer.  "I  have  faith  in 
my  luck,  mademoiselle,  and  I  think  I  am  on  the  tide 
of  it  at  present.  I  little  hoped  when  I  made  my  way 
into  Condillac  in  this  array  that  I  should  end,  by 
virtue  of  my  pretended  ignorance  of  French,  in  being 
appointed  gaoler  to  you.  I  had  some  ado  to  keep  the 
joy  from  my  eyes  when  I  heard  them  planning  it.  It 
is  a  thing  that  has  made  all  else  easy." 

"But  what  can  you  do  alone,  monsieur?"  she 
asked  him;  and  there  was  a  note  almost  of  petulance 
in  her  voice. 

He  moved  to  the  window,  and  leaned  his  elbow  on 
the  sill.  The  light  was  fast  fading.  "  I  know  not  yet. 
But  I  am  here  to  contrive  a  means.  I  shall  think  and 
watch." 

"You  know  in  what  hourly  peril  I  am  placed,"  she 
cried,  and  suddenly  remembering  that  he  must  have 
overheard  and  understood  the  Dowager's  words,  a 
sudden  heat  came  to  her  cheeks  to  recede  again  and 
leave  them  marble -pale.  And  she  thanked  Heaven 
that  in  the  dusk  and  in  the  shadow  where  she  stood 
he  could  but  ill  make  out  her  face. 


VALERIE'S  GAOLER 


"If  you  think  that  I  have  been  rash  in  return- 
ing-" 

"No,  no,  not  rash,  monsieur;  noble  and  brave 
above  all  praise.  I  would  indeed  I  could  tell  you  how 
noble  and  brave  I  account  your  action." 

"It  is  as  nothing  to  the  bravery  required  to  let 
Rabecque  do  this  hideous  work  upon  a  face  for  which 
I  have  ever  entertained  some  measure  of  respect." 

He  jested,  sooner  than  enlighten  her  that  it  was  his 
egregious  pride  had  fetched  him  back  when  he  was 
but  a  few  hours  upon  his  journey  Pariswards,  his  in- 
ability to  brook  the  ridicule  that  would  be  his  when 
he  announced  at  the  Luxembourg  that  failure  had 
attended  him. 

"Ah,  but  what  can  you  do  alone?"  she  repeated. 

"Give  me  at  least  a  day  or  two  to  devise  some 
means;  let  me  look  round  and  take  the  measure  of  this 
gaol.  Some  way  there  must  be.  I  have  not  come  so 
far  and  so  successfully  to  be  beaten  now.  Still,"  he 
continued,  "if  you  think  that  I  overrate  my  strength 
or  my  resource,  if  you  would  sooner  that  I  sought  men 
and  made  an  assault  upon  Condillac,  endeavouring  to 
carry  it  and  to  let  the  Queen's  will  prevail  by  force  of 
arms,  tell  me  so,  and  I  am  gone  to-morrow." 

"Whither  would  you  go?"  she  cried,  her  voice 
strained  with  sudden  affright. 

"  I  might  seek  help  at  Lyons  or  Moulins.  I  might 
find  loyal  soldiers  who  would  be  willing  to  follow  me 
by  virtue  of  my  warrant  to  levy  such  help  as  I  may 
require,  if  I  but  tell  them  that  the  help  was  refused 
me  in  Grenoble.  I  am  not  sure  that  it  would  be  so, 
for,  unfortunately,  my  warrant  is  for  the  Seneschal  of 
Dauphiny  only.  Still,  I  might  make  the  attempt." 


152  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


"No,  no,"  she  implored  him,  and  in  her  eagerness 
to  have  him  put  all  thought  of  leaving  her  from  his 
mind,  she  caught  him  by  the  arm  and  raised  a  plead- 
ing face  to  his.  "Do  not  leave  me  here,  monsieur; 
of  your  pity  do  not  leave  me  alone  amongst  them. 
Think  me  a  coward  if  you  will,  monsieur:  I  am  no  less. 
They  have  made  a  coward  of  me." 

He  understood  the  thing  she  dreaded,  and  a  great 
pity  welled  up  from  his  generous  heart  for  this  poor 
unfriended  girl  at  the  mercy  of  the  beautiful  witch  of 
Condillac  and  her  beautiful  rascally  son.  He  patted 
the  hand  that  clutched  his  arm. 

"I  think,  myself,  that  it  will  be  best  if  I  remain,  now 
that  I  have  come  so  far,"  he  said.  "Let  me  ponder 
things.  It  may  well  be  that  I  shall  devise  some  way." 

"  May  Heaven  inspire  you,  monsieur.  I  shall  spend 
the  night  in  prayer,  I  think,  imploring  God  and  His 
saints  to  show  you  the  way  you  seek." 

"Heaven,  I  think,  should  hear  your  prayers,  made- 
moiselle," he  answered  musingly,  his  glance  upon  the 
white,  saintly  face  that  seemed  to  shine  in  the  deep- 
ening gloom.  Then,  suddenly  he  stirred  and  bent  to 
listen. 

"Sh!  Some  one  is  coming,"  he  whispered.  And  he 
sped  quickly  from  her  side  and  into  the  outer  room, 
where  he  sank  noiselessly  on  to  his  chair  as  the  steps 
ascended  the  stone  staircase  and  a  glow  of  yellow 
light  grew  gradually  in  the  doorway  that  opened  on 
to  it. 


CHAPTER  XII 


A  MATTER  OF  CONSCIENCE 

THAT  he  might  inspire  the  more  confidence  in  the 
Dowager  and  her  son  Garnache  organized  and 
performed  a  little  comedy  at  Condillac  a  couple  of 
nights  after  his  appointment  as  mademoiselle's  gaoler. 
He  gave  an  alarm  at  dead  midnight,  and  when  half- 
clad  men,  followed  presently  by  madame  and  Marius, 
rushed  into  the  anteroom  where  he  stood,  a  very  pic- 
ture of  the  wildest  excitement,  he  drew  their  atten- 
tion to  two  twisted  sheets,  tied  end  to  end,  hanging 
from  the  window  which  overlooked  the  moat;  and  in 
answer  to  the  marquise's  questions  he  informed  he* 
that  he  had  been  disturbed  by  sounds  of  movements 
and  upon  entering  the  chamber  he  had  discovered 
mademoiselle  making  these  preparations  for  depar- 
ture. 

Valerie,  locked  in  the  inner  chamber,  refused  to 
come  forth  as  the  Marquise  bade  her,  but  her  voice  re- 
assured Madame  de  Condillac  of  her  presence,  and  so, 
since  her  attempt  had  failed,  madame  was  content  to 
let  her  be. 

"The  little  fool,"  she  said,  peering  down  from  the 
window  into  the  night;  "she  would  have  been  killed 
for  certain.  Her  rope  of  sheets  does  not  reach  more 
than  a  third  of  the  way  down.  She  would  have  had 
over  thirty  feet  to  fall,  and  if  that  had  not  been 
enough  to  finish  her,  she  would  of  a  certainty  have 
been  drowned  in  the  moat." 


154 


SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


She  signified  her  satisfaction  with  the  faithful 
"Battista's"  vigilance  by  a  present  of  some  gold 
pieces  in  the  morning,  and  since  the  height  of  the 
window  and  the  moat  beneath  it  did  not  appear 
sufficient  obstacles  to  mademoiselle's  attempts  at 
effecting  her  escape,  the  Dowager  had  the  window 
nailed  down.  Thus,  only  by  breaking  it  could  egress 
be  obtained,  and  the  breaking  of  it  could  not  be 
effected  without  such  a  noise  as  must  arouse  "Bat- 
tista." 

Under  Garnache's  instructions  the  comedy  was 
carried  a  little  further.  Mademoiselle  affected  for  her 
gaoler  a  most  unconquerable  aversion,  and  this  she 
took  pains  to  proclaim. 

One  morning,  three  days  after  her  attempted  es- 
cape, she  was  taking  the  air  in  the  garden  of  Condillac, 
"Battista,"  ever  watchful,  a  few  paces  behind  her, 
when  suddenly  she  was  joined  by  Marius  —  a  splen- 
did, graceful  figure  in  a  riding-suit  of  brown  velvet  and 
biscuit-coloured  hose,  his  points  tipped  with  gold,  his 
long  boots  of  the  finest  marroquin  leather,  his  liver- 
coloured  hound  at  his  heels.  It  was  the  last  day  of 
October,  but  the  weather,  from  cold  and  wet  that  it 
had  been  for  the  past  fortnight,  had  taken  on  a  sudden 
improvement.  The  sun  shone,  the  air  was  still  and 
warm,  and  but  for  the  strewn  leaves  and  the  faint  smell 
of  decay  with  which  the  breath  of  autumn  is  ever 
laden,  one  might  have  fancied  it  a  day  of  early  spring. 

It  was  not  Valerie's  wont  to  pause  when  Marius 
approached.  Since  she  might  not  prevent  him  from 
walking  where  he  listed,  she  had  long  since  abandoned 
the  futility  of  bidding  him  begone  when  he  came  near 
her.  But,  at  least,  she  had  never  stopped  in  her  walk, 


A  MATTER  OF  CONSCIENCE 


never  altered  its  pace;  she  had  suffered  what  she  might 
not  avoid,  but  she  had  worn  the  outward  air  of  suffer- 
ing it  with  indifference.  This  morning,  however,  she 
made  a  departure  from  her  long  habit.  Not  only  did 
she  pause  upon  observing  his  approach,  but  she  called 
to  him  as  if  she  would  have  him  hasten  to  her  side. 
And  hasten  he  did,  a  new  light  in  his  eyes  that  was 
mostly  of  surprise,  but  a  little,  also,  of  hope. 

She  was  gracious  to  him  for  once,  and  gave  him 
good-morning  in  a  manner  that  bordered  upon  the 
pleasant.  Wondering,  he  fell  into  step  beside  her,  and 
they  paced  together  the  yew-bordered  terrace,  the 
ever-vigilant  but  discreet  "Battista"  following  them, 
though  keeping  now  a  few  paces  farther  in  the  rear. 

For  a  little  while  they  appeared  constrained,  and 
their  talk  was  of  the  falling  leaves  and  the  grateful 
change  that  had  so  suddenly  come  upon  the  weather. 
Suddenly  she  stopped  and  faced  him. 

"Will  you  do  me  a  favour,  Marius?"  she  asked. 
He  halted  too,  and  turned  to  her,  studying  her  gentle 
face,  seeking  to  guess  her  mind  in  the  clear  hazel  eyes 
she  raised  to  his.  His  eyebrows  lifted  slightly  with 
surprise.  Nevertheless  — 

"There  is  in  all  the  world,  Valerie,  nothing  you 
could  ask  me  that  I  would  not  do,"  he  protested. 

She  smiled  wistfully.  "How  easy  it  is  to  utter 
words!"  she  sighed. 

"Marry  me,"  he  answered,  leaning  towards  her,  his 
eyes  devouring  her  now,  "  and  you  shall  find  my  words 
very  quickly  turned  to  deeds." 

"Ah,"  said  she,  and  her  smile  broadened  and  took 
on  a  scornful  twist,  "you  make  conditions  now.  If  I 
will  marry  you,  there  is  nothing  you  will  not  do  for 


'  156  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


me;  so  that,  conversely,  I  may  take  it  that  if  I  do  not 
marry  you,  there  is  nothing  you  will  do.  But  in  the 
meantime,  Marius,  until  I  resolve  me  whether  I  will 
marry  you  or  not,  would  you  not  do  a  little  thing  that 
I  might  ask  of  you?" 

"Until  you  resolve?"  he  cried,  and  his  face  flushed 
with  the  sudden  hope  he  gathered  from  those  words. 
Hitherto  there  had  been  no  suggestion  of  a  possible 
modification  of  attitude  towards  his  suit.  It  had  been 
repulsion,  definite  and  uncompromising.  Again  he 
studied  her  face.  Was  she  fooling  him,  this  girl  with 
the  angel-innocence  of  glance?  The  thought  of  such 
a  possibility  cooled  him  instantly.  "What  is  it  you 
want  of  me?"  he  asked,  his  voice  ungracious. 

"Only  a  little  thing,  Marius."  Her  glance  trav- 
elled back  over  her  shoulder  to  the  tall,  limber  fellow 
in  leather  jerkin  and  with  cross-gartered  legs  who 
lounged  a  dozen  steps  behind  them.  "  Rid  me  of  that 
ruffian's  company,"  said  she. 

Marius  looked  back  at  "Battista,"  and  from  him  to 
Valerie.  Then  he  smiled  and  made  a  slight  movement 
with  his  shoulders. 

"But  to  what  end?"  he  asked,  as  one  who  plead- 
ingly opposes  an  argument  that  is  unreasonable.  "An- 
other would  replace  him,  and  there  is  little  to  choose 
among  the  men  that  garrison  Condillac." 

"Little,  perhaps;  but  that  little  matters."  Sure  of 
her  ground,  and  gathering  from  his  tone  and  manner 
that  the  more  ardently  she  begged  this  thing  the  less 
likely  would  it  be  that  she  should  prevail,  she  pursued 
her  intercessions  with  a  greater  heat.  "Oh,"  she  cried, 
in  a  pretended  rage,  "it  is  to  insult  me  to  give  me  that 
unclean  knave  for  perpetual  company.  I  loathe  and 


A  MATTER  OF  CONSCIENCE 


detest  him.  The  very  sight  of  him  is  too  much  to 
endure." 

"You  exaggerate,"  said  he  coldly. 

"I  do  not;  indeed  I  do  not,"  she  rejoined,  looking 
frankly,  pleadingly  into  his  face.  "You  do  not 
realize  what  it  is  to  suffer  the  insolent  vigilance  of 
such  as  he;  to  feel  that  your  every  step  is  under  sur- 
veillance; to  feel  his  eyes  ever  upon  you  when  you  are 
within  his  sight.  Oh,  it  is  insufferable!" 

Suddenly  he  gripped  her  arm,  his  face  within  a 
hand's  breadth  of  her  own,  his  words  falling  hot  and 
quickly  on  her  ear. 

"It  is  yours  to  end  it  when  you  will,  Valerie,"  he 
passionately  reminded  her.  "Give  yourself  into  my 
keeping.  Let  it  be  mine  to  watch  over  you  henceforth. 
Let  me  — " 

Abruptly  he  ceased.  She  had  drawn  back  her  head, 
her  face  was  white  to  the  lips,  and  in  her  eyes,  as  they 
dwelt  on  his  at  such  close  quarters,  there  appeared  a 
look  of  terror,  of  loathing  unutterable.  He  saw  it,  and 
releasing  her  arm  he  fell  back  as  if  she  had  struck  him. 
The  colour  left  his  face  too. 

"Or  is  it,"  he  muttered  thickly,  "  that  I  inspire  you 
with  much  the  same  feeling  as  does  he?" 

She  stood  before  him  with  lowered  eyelids,  her 
bosom  heaving  still  from  the  agitation  of  fear  his  close- 
ness had  aroused  in  her.  He  studied  her  in  silence 
a  moment,  with  narrowing  eyes  and  tightening  lips. 
Then  anger  stirred  in  him,  and  quenched  the  sorrow 
with  which  at  first  he  had  marked  the  signs  of  her 
repulsion.  But  anger  in  Marius  de  Condillac  was  a 
cold  and  deadly  emotion  that  vented  itself  in  no 
rantings,  uttered  no  loud-voiced  threats  or  denun- 


158  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


ciations,  prompted  no  waving  of  arms  or  plucking 
forth  of  weapons. 

He  stooped  towards  her  again  from  his  stately, 
graceful  height.  The  cruelty  hidden  in  the  beautiful 
lines  of  his  mouth  took  instant  prominence  in  the 
smile  that  flickered  round  it. 

"  I  think  that  Battista  makes  a  very  excellent  watch- 
dog," he  said,  and  you  would  have  thought  him 
amused,  as  if  at  the  foolish  subterfuge  of  some  little 
child.  "You  may  be  right  to  dislike  him.  He  knows 
no  French,  so  that  it  may  not  be  yours  to  pervert  and 
bribe  him  with  promises  of  what  you  will  do  if  he 
assists  you  to  escape;  but  you  will  see  that  this  very 
quality  which  renders  him  detestable  to  you  renders 
him  invaluable  to  us." 

He  laughed  softly,  as  one  well  pleased  with  his  own 
astuteness,  doffed  his  hat  with  a  politeness  almost 
exaggerated,  and  whistling  his  dog  he  abruptly  left 
her. 

Thus  were  Marius  and  his  mother  —  to  whom  he 
bore  the  tale  of  Valerie's  request  —  tricked  further 
into  reposing  the  very  fullest  trust  in  the  watchful,  in- 
corruptible "Battista."  Realizing  that  this  would  be 
so,  Garnache  now  applied  himself  more  unreservedly 
to  putting  into  effect  the  plans  he  had  been  maturing. 
And  he  went  about  it  with  a  zest  that  knew  no  flag- 
ging, with  a  relish  that  nothing  could  impair.  Not  that 
it  was  other  than  usual  for  Garnache  to  fling  himself 
whole-heartedly  into  the  conduct  of  any  enterprise  he 
might  have  upon  his  hands;  but  he  had  come  into  this 
affair  at  Condillac  against  his  will;  stress  of  circum- 
stances it  was  had  driven  him  on,  step  by  step,  to  take 
a  personal  hand  in  the  actual  deliverance  of  Valerie. 


A  MATTER  OF  CONSCIENCE 


It  was  vanity  and  pride  that  had  turned  him  back 
when  already  he  was  on  the  road  to  Paris;  not  without 
yet  a  further  struggle  would  he  accept  defeat.  To  this 
end  had  he  been  driven,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
to  the  indignity  of  his  foul  disguise;  and  he,  whose 
methods  had  ever  been  direct,  had  been  forced  to  have 
recourse  to  the  commonest  of  subterfuges.  It  was 
with  anger  in  his  heart  that  he  had  proceeded  to  play 
j  the  part  he  had  assumed.  He  felt  it  to  be  a  thing  un- 
worthy of  him,  a  thing  that  derogated  from  his  self- 
respect.  Had  he  but  had  the  justification  of  some 
high  political  aim,  he  might  have  endured  it  with  a 
better  resignation;  the  momentous  end  to  be  served 
might  have  sanctioned  the  ignoble  means  adopted. 
But  here  was  a  task  in  itself  almost  as  unworthy 
of  him  as  the  methods  by  which  he  now  set  about 
accomplishing  it.  He  was  to  black  his  face  and  dye 
his  beard  and  hair,  stain  his  skin  and  garb  himself 
in  filthy  rags,  for  no  better  end  than  that  he  might 
compass  the  enlargement  of  a  girl  from  the  captivity 
into  which  she  had  been  forced  by  a  designing  lady  of 
Dauphiny.  Was  that  a  task  to  set  a  soldier,  a  man  of 
his  years  and  birth  and  name?  He  had  revolted  at  it; 
yet  that  stubborn  pride  of  his  that  would  not  brook 
his  return  to  Paris  to  confess  himself  defeated  by  a 
woman  over  this  woman's  business,  held  him  relent- 
lessly to  his  distasteful  course. 

And  gradually  the  distaste  of  it  had  melted.  It  had 
begun  to  fall  away  five  nights  ago,  when  he  had 
heard  what  passed  between  Madame  de  Condillac  and 
Valerie.  A  great  pity  for  this  girl,  a  great  indignation 
against  those  who  would  account  no  means  too  base  to 
achieve  their  ends  with  her,  a  proper  realization  of  the 


160  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


indignities  she  was  suffering,  caused  him  to  shed  some 
of  his  reluctance,  some  of  his  sense  of  injury  to  him- 
self. 

His  innate  chivalry,  that  fine  spirit  of  his  which  had 
ever  prompted  him  to  defend  the  weak  against  the 
oppressor,  stirred  him  now,  and  stirred  him  to  such 
purpose  that,  in  the  end,  from  taking  up  the  burden 
of  his  task  reluctantly,  he  came  to  bear  it  zestfully  and 
almost  gladly.  He  was  rejoiced  to  discover  himself 
equipped  with  histrionic  gifts  of  which  he  had  had  no 
suspicion  hitherto,  and  it  delighted  him  to  set  them 
into  activity. 

Now  it  happened  that  at  Condiilac  there  was  a 
fellow-countryman  of  "Battista's,"  a  mercenary  from 
Northern  Italy,  a  rascal  named  Arsenio,  whom  For- 
tunio  had  enlisted  when  first  he  began  to  increase  the 
garrison  a  month  ago.  Upon  this  fellow's  honesty 
Garnache  had  formed  designs.  He  had  closely  ob- 
served him,  and  in  Arsenio's  countenance  he  thought 
he  detected  a  sufficiency  of  villainy  to  augur  well  for 
the  prosperity  of  any  scheme  of  treachery  that  might 
be  suggested  to  him  —  provided  the  reward  were  ade- 
quate. 

Garnache  went  about  sounding  the  man  with  a 
wiliness  peculiarly  his  own.  Arsenio  being  his  only 
compatriot  at  Condiilac  it  was  not  wonderful  that 
in  his  few  daily  hours  of  relief  from  his  gaoler's  duty 
"Battista"  should  seek  out  the  fellow  and  sit  in  talk 
with  him.  The  pair  became  intimate,  and  intercourse 
between  them  grew  more  free  and  unrestrained.  Gar- 
nache waited,  wishing  to  risk  nothing  by  precipi- 
tancy, and  watched  for  his  opportunity.  It  came  on 
the  morrow  of  All  Saints.  On  that  Day  of  the  Dead, 


A  MATTER  OF  CONSCIENCE  161 


Arsenio,  whose  rearing  had  been  that  of  a  true  son  of 
Mother  Church,  was  stirred  by  the  memory  of  his 
earthly  mother,  who  had  died  some  three  years  before. 
He  was  silent  and  moody,  and  showed  little  respon- 
siveness to  Garnache's  jesting  humour.  Garnache, 
wondering  what  might  be  toward  in  the  fellow's  mind, 
watched  him  closely. 

Suddenly  the  little  man  —  he  was  a  short,  bow- 
legged,  sinewy  fellow  —  heaved  a  great  sigh  as  he 
plucked  idly  at  a  weed  that  grew  between  two  stones 
of  the  inner  courtyard,  where  they  were  seated  on  the 
chapel  steps. 

"You  are  a  dull  comrade  to-day,  compatriot,"  said 
Garnache,  clapping  him  on  the  shoulder. 

"It  is  the  Day  of  the  Dead,"  the  fellow  answered 
him,  as  though  that  were  an  ample  explanation.  Gar- 
nache laughed. 

"To  those  that  are  dead  it  no  doubt  is;  so  was 
yesterday,  so  will  to-morrow  be.  But  to  us  who  sit 
here  it  is  the  day  of  the  living." 

"You  are  a  scoffer,"  the  other  reproached  him,  and 
his  rascally  face  was  oddly  grave.  "You  don't  under- 
stand." 

'"'Enlighten  me,  then.  Convert  me." 

"It  is  the  day  when  our  thoughts  turn  naturally  to 
the  dead,  and  mine  are  with  my  mother,  who  has  lain 
in  her  grave  these  three  years.  I  am  thinking  of  what 
she  reared  me  and  of  what  I  am." 

Garnache  made  a  grimace  which  the  other  did  not 
observe.  He  stared  at  the  little  cut-throat,  and  there 
was  some  dismay  in  his  glance.  What  ailed  the  rogue? 
Was  he  about  to  repent  him  of  his  sins,  and  to  have 
done  with  villainy  and  treachery;  was  he  minded  to 


162  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


slit  no  more  gullets  in  the  future,  be  faithful  to  the 
hand  that  paid  him,  and  lead  a  godlier  life?  Peste! 
That  was  a  thing  that  would  nowise  suit  Monsieur  de 
Garnache's  ends  just  then.  If  Arsenio  had  a  mind 
to  reform,  let  him  postpone  that  reformation  until 
Garnache  should  have  done  with  him.  So  he  opened 
his  lips  and  let  out  a  deep  guffaw  of  mockery. 

"We  shall  have  you  turning  monk,"  said  he,  "a 
candidate  for  canonization  going  barefoot,  with  fla- 
gellated back  and  shaven  head.  No  more  wine,  no 
more  dice,  no  more  wenches,  no  more  — " 

"Peace!"  snapped  the  other. 

"Say  'Pax,'"  suggested  Garnache,  '"Pax  tecum* 
or  ' vobiscum?  It  is  thus  you  will  be  saying  it  later." 

"If  my  conscience  pricks  me,  is  it  aught  to  you? 
Have  you  no  conscience  of  your  own?" 

"None.  Men  wax  lean  on  it  in  this  vale  of  tears.  It 
is  a  thing  invented  by  the  great  to  enable  them  to 
pursue  the  grinding  and  oppression  of  the  small.  If 
your  master  pays  you  ill  for  the  dirty  work  you  do  for 
him  and  another  comes  along  to  offer  you  some  rich 
reward  for  an  omission  in  that  same  service,  you  are 
warned  that  if  you  let  yourself  be  tempted,  your  con- 
science will  plague  you  afterwards.  Pish!  A  clumsy, 
childish  device  that,  to  keep  you  faithful." 

Arsenio  looked  up.  Words  that  defamed  the  great 
were  ever  welcome  to  him;  arguments  that  showed 
him  he  was  oppressed  and  imposed  upon  sounded  ever 
gratefully  in  his  ears.  He  nodded  his  approval  of 
"Battista's"  dictum. 

"Body  of  Bacchus!"  he  swore,  "you  are  right  in 
that,  compatriot.  But  my  case  is  different.  I  am 
thinking  of  the  curse  that  Mother  Church  has  put 


A  MATTER  OF  CONSCIENCE  163 


upon  this  house.  Yesterday  was  All  Saints,  and  never 
a  Mass  heard  I.  To-day  is  All  Souls,  and  never  a 
prayer  may  I  offer  up  in  this  place  of  sin  for  the  rest  of 
my  mother's  soul." 

"How  so?"  quoth  Garnache,  looking  in  wonder  at 
this  religiously  minded  cut-throat. 

"How  so?  Is  not  the  House  of  Condillac  under  ex- 
communication, and  every  man  who  stays  in  it  of  his 
own  free  will?  Prayers  and  Sacraments  are  alike  for- 
bidden here." 

Garnache  received  a  sudden  inspiration.  He  leapt 
to  his  feet,  his  face  convulsed  as  if  at  the  horror  of 
learning  of  a  hitherto  undreamt-of  state  of  things.  He 
never  paused  to  give  a  moment's  consideration  to  the 
cut- throat's  mind,  so  wonderfully  constituted  as  to 
enable  him  to  break  with  impunity  every  one  of  the 
commandments  every  day  of  the  week  for  the  matter 
of  a  louis  d'or  or  two,  and  yet  be  afflicted  by  qualms 
of  conscience  at  living  under  a  roof  upon  which  the 
Church  had  hurled  her  malediction. 

"What  are  you  saying,  compatriot?  What  is  it  that 
you  tell  me?" 

"The  truth,"  said  Arsenio,  with  a  shrug.  "Any 
man  who  wilfully  abides  in  the  services  of  Condillac" 
—  and  instinctively  he  lowered  his  voice  lest  the  Cap- 
tain or  the  Marquise  should  be  within  earshot  — 
"is  excommunicate." 

"By  the  Host!"  swore  the  false  Piedmontese.  "I 
am  a  Christian  man  myself,  Arsenio,  and  I  have  lived 
in  ignorance  of  this  thing?" 

"That  ignorance  may  be  your  excuse.  But  now 
that  you  know — "  Arsenio  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Now  that  I  know,  I  had  best  have  a  care  of 


164  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


my  soul  and  look  about  me  for  other  employment." 

"Alas!"  sighed  Arsenio;  "it  is  none  so  easy  to 
find." 

Garnache  looked  at  him.  Garnache  began  to  have 
in  his  luck  a  still  greater  faith  than  hitherto.  He 
glanced  stealthily  around;  then  he  sat  down  again,  so 
that  his  mouth  was  close  to  Arsenio's  ear. 

"The  pay  is  beggarly  here,  yet  I  have  refused  a 
fortune  offered  me  by  another  that  I  might  remain 
loyal  to  my  masters  at  Condillac.  But  this  thing  that 
you  tell  me  alters  everything.  By  the  Host!  yes." 

"A  fortune?"  sneered  Arsenio. 

"Aye,  a  fortune  —  at  least,  fifty  pistoles.  That  is  a 
fortune  to  some  of  us." 

Arsenio  whistled.  "Tell  me  more,"  said  he. 

Garnache  rose  with  the  air  of  one  about  to  depart. 

"I  must  think  of  it,"  said  he,  and  he  made  shift  to 
go.  But  the  other's  hand  fell  with  a  clenching  grip 
upon  his  arm. 

"Of  what  must  you  think,  fool?"  said  he.  "Tell  me 
this  service  you  have  been  offered.  I  have  a  conscience 
that  upbraids  me.  If  you  refuse  these  fifty  pistoles, 
why  should  not  I  profit  by  your  folly?" 

"There  would  not  be  the  need.  Two  men  are  re- 
quired for  the  thing  I  speak  of,  and  there  are  fifty 
pistoles  for  each.  If  I  decide  to  undertake  the  task, 
I'll  speak  of  you  as  a  likely  second." 

He  nodded  gloomily  to  his  companion,  and  shaking 
off  his  hold  he  set  out  to  cross  the  yard.  But  Arsenio 
was  after  him  and  had  fastened  again  upon  his  arm, 
detaining  him. 

"You  fool!"  said  he;  "you'd  not  refuse  this  for- 
tune?" 


A  MATTER  OF  CONSCIENCE  165 


"It  would  mean  treachery,"  whispered  Garnache. 

"That  is  bad,"  the  other  agreed,  and  his  face  fell. 
But  remembering  what  Garnache  had  said,  he  was 
quick  to  brighten  again.  "Is  it  to  these  folk  here  at 
Condillac  ?"  he  asked.  Garnache  nodded.  "And  they 
would  pay  —  these  people  that  seek  our  service  — 
would  pay  you  fifty  pistoles?" 

"They  seek  my  service  only,  as  yet.  They  might 
seek  yours  were  I  to  speak  for  you." 

"And  you  will,  compatriot.  You  will,  will  you  not? 
We  are  comrades,  we  are  friends,  and  we  are  fellow- 
countrymen  in  a  strange  land.  There  is  nothing  I 
would  not  do  for  you,  Battista.  Look,  I  would  die  for 
you  if  there  should  come  the  need!  Body  of  Bacchus! 
I  would.  I  am  like  that  when  I  love  a  man." 

Garnache  patted  his  shoulder.  "You  are  a  good 
fellow,  Arsenio." 

"And  you  will  speak  for  me?" 

"But  you  do  not  know  the  nature  of  the  service," 
said  Garnache.  "You  may  refuse  it  when  it  is  de- 
finitely offered  you." 

"Refuse  fifty  pistoles?  I  should  deserve  to  be  the 
pauper  that  I  am  if  such  had  been  my  habits.  Be  the 
service  what  it  may,  my  conscience  pricks  me  for 
serving  Condillac.  Tell  me  how  the  fifty  pistoles  are 
to  be  earned,  and  you  may  count  upon  me  to  put  my 
hand  to  anything." 

Garnache  was  satisfied.  But  he  told  Arsenio  no 
more  that  day,  beyond  assuring  him  he  would  speak 
for  him  and  let  him  know  upon  the  morrow.  Nor  on 
the  morrow,  when  they  returned  to  the  subject  at 
Arsenio's  eager  demand,  did  Garnache  tell  him  all,  or 
even  that  the  service  was  mademoiselle's.  Instead 


166  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


he  pretended  that  it  was  some  one  in  Grenoble  who 
needed  two  such  men  as  they. 

"Word  has  been  brought  me,"  he  said  mysteriously. 
"You  must  not  ask  me  how." 

"But  how  the  devil  are  we  to  reach  Grenoble? 
The  Captain  will  never  let  us  go,"  said  Arsenio,  in  an 
ill-humour. 

"On  the  night  that  you  are  of  the  watch,  Arsenio, 
we  will  depart  together  without  asking  the  Captain's 
leave.  You  shall  open  the  postern  when  I  come  to 
join  you  here  in  the  courtyard." 

"But  what  of  the  man  at  the  door  yonder?"  And 
he  jerked  his  thumb  towards  the  tower  where  made- 
moiselle was  a  captive,  and  where  at  night  "  Battista  " 
was  locked  in  with  her.  At  the  door  leading  to  the 
courtyard  a  sentry  was  always  posted  for  greater 
security.  That  door  and  that  sentry  were  obstacles 
which  Garnache  saw  the  futility  of  attempting  to 
overcome  without  aid.  That  was  why  he  had  been 
forced  to  enlist  Arsenio's  assistance. 

"You  must  account  for  him,  Arsenio,"  said  he. 

"Thus?"  inquired  Arsenio  coolly,  and  he  passed 
the  edge  of  his  hand  significantly  across  his  throat. 
Garnache  shook  his  head. 

"No,"  said  he;  "there  will  be  no  need  for  that.  A 
blow  over  the  head  will  suffice.  Besides,  it  may  be 
quieter.  You  will  find  the  key  of  the  tower  in  his  belt. 
When  you  have  felled  him,  get  it  and  unlock  the  door; 
then  whistle  for  me.  The  rest  will  be  easy." 

"You  are  sure  he  has  the  key?" 

"I  have  it  from  madame  herself.  They  were  forced 
to  leave  it  with  him  to  provide  for  emergencies. 
Mademoiselle's  attempted  escape  by  the  window 


A  MATTER  OF  CONSCIENCE  167 


showed  them  the  necessity  for  it."  He  did  not  add 
that  it  was  the  implicit  confidence  they  reposed  in 
"  Battista"  himself  that  had  overcome  their  reluctance 
to  leave  the  key  with  the  sentry. 

To  seal  the  bargain,  and  in  earnest  of  all  the  gold  to 
come,  Garnache  gave  Arsenio  a  couple  of  gold  louis  as 
a  loan  to  be  repaid  him  when  their  nameless  employer 
should  pay  him  his  fifty  pistoles  in  Grenoble. 

The  sight  and  touch  of  the  gold  convinced  Arsenio 
that  the  thing  was  no  dream.  He  told  Garnache  that 
he  believed  he  would  be  on  guard-duty  on  the  night  of 
the  following  Wednesday  —  this  was  Friday  —  and 
so  for  Wednesday  next  they  left  the  execution  of  their 
plans  unless,  meantime,  a  change  should  be  effected  in 
the  disposition  of  the  sentries. 


CHAPTER  XIII 


THE  COURIER 

MONSIEUR  DE  GARNACHE  was  pleased 
with  the  issue  of  his  little  affair  with  Arsenio. 
"Mademoiselle,"  he  told  Valerie  that  evening,  "I 
was  right  to  have  faith  in  my  luck,  right  to  believe 
that  the  tide  of  it  is  flowing.  All  we  need  now  is  a  little 
patience;  everything  has  become  easy." 

It  was  the  hour  of  supper.  Valerie  was  at  table  in 
her  anteroom,  and  "Battista"  was  in  attendance.  It 
was  an  added  duty  they  had  imposed  upon  him,  for, 
since  her  attempt  to  escape,  mademoiselle's  imprison- 
ment had  been  rendered  more  rigorous  than  ever.  No 
servant  of  the  chateau  was  allowed  past  the  door  of 
the  outer  anteroom,  now  commonly  spoken  of  as  the 
guardroom  of  the  tower.  Valerie  dined  daily  in  the 
salon  with  Madame  de  Condillac  and  Marius,  but  her 
other  meals  were  served  her  in  her  own  apartments. 
The  servants  who  brought  the  meals  from  the  kitchen 
delivered  them  to  "Battista"  in  the  guardroom,  and 
he  it  was  who  laid  the  cloth  and  waited  upon  made- 
moiselle. At  first  this  added  duty  had  irritated  him 
more  than  all  that  he  had  so  far  endured.  Had  he  — 
Martin  Marie  Rigobert  de  Garnache  —  lived  to  dis- 
charge the  duties  of  a  lackey,  to  bear  dishes  to  a  lady's 
table  and  to  remain  at  hand  to  serve  her?  The  very 
thought  had  all  but  set  him  in  a  rage.  But  presently 
he  grew  reconciled  to  it.  It  afforded  him  particular 
opportunities  of  being  in  mademoiselle's  presence  and 


THE  COURIER 


169 


of  conferring  with  her;  and  for  the  sake  of  such  an 
advantage  he  might  well  belittle  the  unsavoury  part 
of  the  affair. 

A  half-dozen  candles  burned  in  two  gleaming  silver 
sconces  on  the  table;  in  her  tall-backed  leather  chair 
mademoiselle  sat,  and  ate  and  drank  but  little,  while 
Garnache  told  her  of  the  preparations  he  had  made. 

"If  my  luck  but  holds  until  Wednesday  next,"  he 
concluded,  "you  may  count  upon  being  well  out  of 
Condillac.  Arsenio  does  not  dream  that  you  come 
with  us,  so  that  even  should  he  change  his  mind,  at 
least  we  have  no  cause  to  fear  a  betrayal.  But  he  will 
not  change  his  mind.  The  prospect  of  fifty  pistoles 
has  rendered  it  immutable." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  eyes  brightened  by  hope 
and  by  the  encouragement  to  count  upon  success 
which  she  gathered  from  his  optimism. 

"You  have  contrived  it  marvellously  well,"  she 
praised  him.  "If  we  succeed  — " 

"Say  when  we  succeed,  mademoiselle,"  he  laugh- 
ingly corrected  her. 

"Very  well,  then  —  when  we  shall  have  succeeded 
in  leaving  Condillac,  whither  am  I  to  go?" 

"Why,  with  me,  to  Paris,  as  was  determined.  My 
man  awaits  me  at  Voiron  with  money  and  horses.  No 
further  obstacle  shall  rise  to  hamper  us  once  our  backs 
are  turned  upon  the  ugly  walls  of  Condillac.  The 
Queen  shall  make  you  welcome  and  keep  you  safe 
until  Monsieur  Florimond  comes  to  claim  his  bride." 

She  sipped  her  wine,  then  set  down  the  glass  and 
leaned  her  elbow  on  the  table,  taking  her  chin  in  her 
fine  white  hand. 

"Madame  tells  me  that  he  is  dead,"  said  she,  and 


170  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


Garnache  was  shocked  at  the  comparative  calmness 
with  which  she  said  it.  He  looked  at  her  sharply  from 
under  his  sooted  brows.  Was  she,  after  all,  he  won- 
dered, no  different  from  other  women?  Was  she  cold 
and  calculating,  and  had  she  as  little  heart  as  he  had 
come  to  believe  was  usual  with  her  sex,  that  she  could 
contemplate  so  calmly  the  possibility  of  her  lover  be- 
ing dead?  He  had  thought  her  better,  more  natural, 
more  large-hearted  and  more  pure.  That  had  en- 
couraged him  to  stand  by  her  in  these  straits  of  hers, 
no  matter  at  what  loss  of  dignity  to  himself.  It  began 
to  seem  that  his  conclusions  had  been  wrong. 

His  silence  caused  her  to  look  up,  and  in  his  face  she 
read  something  of  what  was  passing  in  his  thoughts. 
She  smiled  rather  wanly. 

"You  are  thinking  me  heartless,  Monsieur  de 
Garnache?" 

"I  am  thinking  you  —  womanly." 

"The  same  thing,  then,  to  your  mind.  Tell  me, 
monsieur,  do  you  know  much  of  women?" 

"God  forbid!  I  have  found  trouble  enough  in  my 
life." 

"And  you  pass  judgment  thus  upon  a  sex  with 
which  you  have  no  acquaintance?" 

"Not  by  acquaintance  only  is  it  that  we  come  to 
knowledge.  There  are  ways  of  learning  other  than 
by  the  road  of  experience.  One  may  learn  of  dangers 
by  watching  others  perish.  It  is  the  fool  who  will  be 
satisfied  alone  with  the  knowledge  that  comes  to  him 
from  what  he  undergoes  himself." 

"You  are  very  wise,  monsieur,"  said  she  demurely, 
so  demurely  that  he  suspected  her  of  laughing  at  him. 
"You  were  never  wed?" 


THE  COURIER 


"Never,  mademoiselle,"  he  answered  stiffly,  "nor 
ever  in  any  danger  of  it." 

"Must  you,  indeed,  account  it  a  danger?" 

"A  deadly  peril,  mademoiselle,"  said  he;  whereupon 
they  both  laughed. 

She  pushed  back  her  chair  and  rose  slowly.  Slowly 
she  passed  from  the  table  and  stepped  towards  the 
window.  Turning  she  set  her  back  to  it,  and  faced 
him. 

"Monsieur  de  Garnache,"  said  she,  "you  are  a  good 
man,  a  true  and  noble  gentleman.  I  would  that  you 
thought  a  little  better  of  us.  All  women  are  not  con- 
temptible, believe  me.  I  will  pray  that  you  may  yet 
mate  with  one  who  will  prove  to  you  the  truth  of 
what  I  say." 

He  smiled  gently,  and  shook  his  head. 

"My  child,"  said  he,  "I  am  not  half  the  noble  fel- 
low you  account  me.  I  have  a  stubborn  pride  that 
stands  me  at  times  in  the  stead  of  virtue.  It  was  pride 
brought  me  back  here,  for  instance.  I  could  not  brook 
the  laughter  that  would  greet  me  in  Paris  did  I  confess 
that  I  was  beaten  by  the  Dowager  of  Condillac.  I  tell 
you  this  to  the  end  that,  thinking  less  well  of  me, 
you  may  spare  me  prayers  which  I  should  dread  to 
see  fulfilled.  I  have  told  you  before,  mademoiselle, 
Heaven  is  likely  to  answer  the  prayers  of  such  a  heart 
as  yours." 

"  Yet  but  a  moment  back  you  deemed  me  heartless," 
she  reminded  him. 

"You  seemed  so  indifferent  to  the  fate  of  Florimond 
de  Condillac." 

"I  must  have  seemed,  then,  what  I  am  not,"  she 
told  him,  "for  I  am  far  from  indifferent  to  Florimond's 


172  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


fate.  The  truth  is,  monsieur,  I  do  not  believe  Madame 
de  Condillac.  Knowing  me  to  be  under  a  promise  that 
naught  can  prevail  upon  me  to  break,  she  would  have 
me  believe  that  nature  has  dissolved  the  obligation 
for  me.  She  thinks  that  were  I  persuaded  of  Flori- 
mond's  death,  I  might  turn  an  ear  to  the  wooing  of 
Marius.  But  she  is  mistaken,  utterly  mistaken;  and 
so  I  sought  to  convince  her.  My  father  willed  that  I 
should  wed  Florimond.  Florimond's  father  had  been 
his  dearest  friend.  I  promised  him  that  I  would  do 
his  will,  and  by  that  promise  I  am  bound.  But  were 
Florimond  indeed  dead,  and  were  I  free  to  choose,  I 
should  not  choose  Marius  were  he  the  only  man  in  all 
the  world." 

Garnache  moved  nearer  to  her. 

"You  speak,"  said  he,  "  as  if  you  were  indifferent  in 
the  matter  of  wedding  Florimond,  whilst  I  understand 
that  your  letter  to  the  Queen  professed  you  eager  for 
the  alliance.  I  may  be  impertinent,  but,  frankly,  your 
attitude  puzzles  me." 

"I  am  not  indifferent,"  she  answered  him,  but 
calmly,  without  enthusiasm.  "Florimond  and  I  were 
playmates,  and  as  a  little  child  I  loved  him  and  ad- 
mired him  as  I  might  have  loved  and  admired  a  bro- 
ther perhaps.  He  is  comely,  honourable,  and  true. 
I  believe  he  would  be  the  kindest  husband  ever  wo- 
man had,  and  so  I  am  content  to  give  my  life  into 
his  keeping.  What  more  can  be  needed?" 

"Never  ask  me,  mademoiselle;  I  am  by  no  means 
an  authority,"  said  he.  "  But  you  appear  to  have  been 
well  schooled  in  a  most  excellent  philosophy."  And  he 
laughed  outright.  She  reddened  under  his  amusement. 

"It  was  thus  my  father  taught  me,"  said  she,  in 


THE  COURIER 


173 


quieter  tones;  "and  he  was  the  wisest  man  I  ever 
knew,  just  as  he  was  the  noblest  and  the  bravest." 

Garnache  bowed  his  head.  "God  rest  his  soul!" 
said  he  with  respectful  fervour. 

"Amen,"  the  girl  replied,  and  they  fell  silent. 

Presently  she  returned  to  the  subject  of  her  be- 
trothed. 

"If  Florimond  is  living,  this  prolonged  absence, 
this  lack  of  news  is  very  strange.  It  is  three  months 
since  last  we  heard  of  him  —  four  months,  indeed. 
Yet  he  must  have  been  apprised  of  his  father's  death, 
and  that  should  have  occasioned  his  return." 

"Was  he  indeed  apprised  of  it?"  inquired  Gar- 
nache. "Did  you,  yourself,  communicate  the  news 
to  him  ? " 

"I?"  she  cried.  "But  no,  monsieur.  We  do  not 
correspond." 

"That  is  a  pity,"  said  Garnache,  "  for  I  believe  that 
the  knowledge  of  the  Marquis's  death  was  kept  from 
him  by  his  stepmother." 

"Mon  Dieu!"  she  exclaimed,  in  horror.  "Do  you 
mean  that  he  may  still  be  in  ignorance  of  it?" 

"Not  that.  A  month  ago  a  courier  was  dispatched 
to  him  by  the  Queen-Mother.  The  last  news  of  him  — 
some  four  months  old,  as  you  have  said  —  reported 
him  at  Milan  in  the  service  of  Spain.  Thither  was  the 
courier  sent  to  find  him  and  to  deliver  him  letters  set- 
ting forth  what  was  toward  at  Condillac." 

"A  month  ago?"  she  said.  "And  still  we  have  no 
word.  I  am  full  of  fears  for  him,  monsieur." 

"And  I,"  said  Garnache,  "am  full  of  hope  that  we 
shall  have  news  of  him  at  any  moment." 

That  he  was  well  justified  of  his  hope  was  to  be 


174  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


proven  before  they  were  many  days  older.  Mean- 
while Garnache  continued  to  play  his  part  of  gaoler  to 
the  entire  satisfaction  and  increased  confidence  of  the 
Condillacs,  what  time  he  waited  patiently  for  the  ap- 
pointed night  when  it  should  be  his  friend  Arsenio's 
turn  to  take  the  guard. 

On  that  fateful  Wednesday  "Battista"  sought  out 
—  as  had  now  become  his  invariable  custom  —  his 
compatriot  as  soon  as  the  time  of  his  noontide  rest 
was  come,  the  hour  at  which  they  dined  at  Condillac. 
He  found  Arsenio  sunning  himself  in  the  outer  court- 
yard, for  it  seemed  that  year  that  as  the  winter  ap- 
proached the  warmth  increased.  Never  could  man  re- 
member such  a  Saint  Martin's  Summer  as  was  this. 

In  so  far  as  the  matter  of  their  impending  flight  was 
concerned,  "Battista"  was  as  brief  as  he  could  be. 

"Is  all  well?"  he  asked.  "Shall  you  be  on  guard 
to-night?" 

"Yes.  It  is  my  watch  from  sunset  till  dawn.  At 
what  hour  shall  we  be  stirring?" 

Garnache  pondered  a  moment,  stroking  that  firm 
chin  of  his,  on  which  the  erstwhile  stubble  had  now 
grown  into  a  straggling,  unkempt  beard  —  and  it 
plagued  him  not  a  little,  for  a  close  observer  might 
have  discovered  that  it  was  of  a  lighter  colour  at  the 
roots.  His  hair,  too,  was  beginning  to  lose  its  glossy 
blackness.  It  was  turning  dull,  and  presently,  no 
doubt,  it  would  begin  to  pale,  so  that  it  was  high  time 
he  spread  his  wings  and  took  flight  from  Condillac. 

"We  had  best  wait  until  midnight.  It  will  give 
them  time  to  be  soundly  in  their  slumbers.  Though, 
should  there  be  signs  of  any  one  stirring  even  then, 
you  had  better  wait  till  later.  It  were  foolish  to  risk 


THE  COURIER 


175 


having  our  going  prevented  for  the  sake  of  leaving  a 
half-hour  earlier." 

"Depend  upon  me,"  Arsenio  answered  him. 
"When  I  open  the  door  of  your  tower  I  shall  whistle  to 
you.  The  key  of  the  postern  hangs  on  the  guardroom 
wall.  I  shall  possess  myself  of  that  before  I  come." 

"Good,"  said  Garnache,  "we  understand  each 
other." 

And  on  that  they  might  have  parted  there  and 
then,  but  that  there  happened  in  that  moment  a 
commotion  at  the  gate.  Men  hurried  from  the  guard- 
house, and  Fortunio's  voice  sounded  loud  in  command. 
A  horseman  had  galloped  up  to  Condillac,  walked  his 
horse  across  the  bridge  —  which  was  raised  only  at 
night  —  and  was  knocking  with  the  butt  of  his  whip 
an  imperative  summons  upon  the  timbers  of  the 
gate. 

By  Fortunio's  orders  it  was  opened,  and  a  man 
covered  with  dust,  astride  a  weary,  foam-flecked 
horse,  rode  under  the  archway  of  the  keep  into  the 
first  courtyard  of  the  chateau. 

Garnache  eyed  him  in  surprise  and  inquiry,  and  he 
read  in  the  man's  appearance  that  he  was  a  courier. 
The  horseman  had  halted  within  a  few  paces  of  the 
spot  where  "Battista"  and  his  companion  stood,  and 
seeing  in  the  vilely  clad  Garnache  a  member  of  the 
Condillac  household,  he  flung  him  his  reins,  then  got 
down  stiffly  from  his  horse. 

Fortunio,  bristling'with  importance,  his  left  hand  on 
the  hilt  of  his  rapier,  the  fingers  of  his  right  twirling  at 
his  long  fair  mustachios,  at  once  confronted  him  and 
craved  his  business. 

"  I  am  the  bearer  of  letters  for  Madame  the  Dowager 


176  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


Marquise  de  Condillac,"  was  the  reply;  whereupon, 
with  an  arrogant  nod,  Fortunio  bade  the  fellow  go 
with  him,  and  issued  an  order  that  his  horse  should  be 
cared  for. 

Arsenio  was  speaking  in  Garnache's  ear.  The  man's 
nature  was  inquisitive,  and  he  was  indulging  idle  con- 
jectures as  to  what  might  be  the  news  this  courier 
brought.  Garnache's  mind,  actuated  by  very  different 
motives,  was  engaged  upon  the  same  task,  so  much  so 
that  not  a  word  heard  he  of  what  his  supposed  com- 
patriot was  whispering.  Whence  came  this  courier? 
Why  had  not  that  fool  Fortunio  asked  him,  so  that 
Garnache  might  have  overheard  his  answer?  Was  he 
from  Paris  and  the  Queen,  or  was  he,  perchance,  from 
Italy  and  Florimond?  These  were  questions  to  which 
it  imported  him  to  have  the  answers.  He  must  know 
what  letters  the  fellow  brought.  The  knowledge  might 
guide  him  now;  might  even  cause  him  to  alter  the  plans 
he  had  formed. 

He  stood  in  thought  whilst,  unheeded  by  him, 
Arsenio  prattled  at  his  elbow.  He  bethought  him  of 
the  old  minstrel's  gallery  at  the  end  of  the  hall  in 
which  the  Condillacs  were  dining  and  whither  the 
courier  would  be  conducted.  He  knew  the  way  to  that 
gallery,  for  he  had  made  a  very  close  study  of  the 
chateau  against  the  time  when  he  might  find  himself 
in  need  of  the  knowledge. 

With  a  hurried  excuse  to  Arsenio  he  moved  away, 
and,  looking  round  to  see  that  he  was  unobserved,  he 
was  on  the  point  of  making  his  way  to  the  gallery 
when  suddenly  he  checked  himself.  WTiat  went  he 
there  to  do?  To  play  the  spy?  To  become  fellow  to 
the  lackey  who  listens  at  keyholes?  Ah,  no!  That 


THE  COURIER 


177 


was  something  no  service  could  demand  of  him.  He 
might  owe  a  duty  to  the  Queen,  but  there  was  also  a 
duty  that  he  owed  himself,  and  this  duty  forbade  him 
from  going  to  such  extremes.  Thus  spake  his  Pride, 
and  he  mistook  its  voice  for  that  of  Honour.  Betide 
what  might,  it  was  not  for  Garnache  to  play  the  eaves- 
dropper. Not  that,  Pardieu! 

And  so  he  turned  away,  his  desires  in  conflict  with 
that  pride  of  his,  and  gloomily  he  paced  the  court- 
yard, Arsenio  marvelling  what  might  have  come  to 
him.  And  well  was  it  for  him  that  pride  should  have 
detained  him;  well  would  it  seem  as  if  his  luck  were 
indeed  in  the  ascendant  and  had  prompted  his  pride 
to  save  him  from  a  deadly  peril.  For  suddenly  some 
one  called  — 

"Battista!" 

He  heard,  but  for  the  moment,  absorbed  as  he  was 
in  his  own  musings,  he  overlooked  the  fact  that  it  was 
the  name  to  which  he  answered  at  Condillac. 

Not  until  it  was  repeated  more  loudly,  and  impera- 
tively, did  he  turn  to  see  Fortunio  beckoning  him. 
With  a  sudden  dread  anxiety,  he  stepped  to  the 
captain's  side.  Was  he  discovered?  But  Fortunio's 
words  set  his  doubts  to  rest  at  once. 

"You  are  to  re-conduct  Mademoiselle  de  La  Vau- 
vraye  to  her  apartments  at  once." 

Garnache  bowed  and  followed  the  captain  up  the 
steps  and  into  the  chateau  that  he  might  carry  out  the 
order;  and  as  he  went  he  shrewdly  guessed  that  it  was 
the  arrival  of  that  courier  had  occasioned  the  sudden 
removal  of  mademoiselle. 

When  they  were  alone  together  —  he  and  she  —  in 
her  anteroom  in  the  Northern  Tower,  she  turned  to 


178  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


him  before  he  had  time  to  question  her  as  he  was  in- 
tending. 

"A  courier  has  arrived,"  said  she. 

"I  know;  I  saw  him  in  the  courtyard.  Whence  is 
he?  Did  you  learn  it?" 

"From  Florimond."  She  was  white  with  agitation. 

"From  the  Marquis  de  Condillac?"  he  cried,  and 
he  knew  not  whether  to  hope  or  fear.  "From  Italy?" 

"No,  monsieur.  I  do  not  think  from  Italy.  From 
what  was  said  I  gathered  that  Florimond  is  already 
on  his  way  to  Condillac.  Oh,  it  made  a  fine  stir.  It 
left  them  no  more  appetite  for  dinner,  and  they  seem 
to  have  thought  it  could  have  left  me  none  for  mine, 
for  they  ordered  my  instant  return  to  my  apartments." 

"Then  you  know  nothing  —  save  that  the  courier 
is  from  the  Marquis?" 

"Nothing;  nor  am  I  likely  to,"  she  answered,  and 
her  arms  dropped  limply  to  her  sides,  her  eyes  looked 
entreatingly  up  into  his  gloomy  face. 

But  Garnache  could  do  no  more  than  rap  out  an 
oath.  Then  he  stood  still  a  moment,  his  eyes  on  the 
window,  his  chin  in  his  hand,  brooding.  His  pride  and 
his  desire  to  know  more  of  that  courier's  message  were 
fighting  it  out  again  in  his  mind,  just  as  they  fought  it 
out  in  the  courtyard  below.  Suddenly  his  glance  fell 
on  her,  standing  there,  so  sweet,  so  frail,  and  so  dis- 
consolate. For  her  sake  he  must  do  the  thing,  repul- 
sive though  it  might  be. 

"I  must  know  more,"  he  exclaimed.  "I  must  learn 
Florimond's  whereabouts,  if  only  that  we  may  go  to 
meet  him  when  we  leave  Condillac  to-night." 

"You  have  arranged  definitely  for  that? "  she  asked, 
her  face  lighting. 


THE  COURIER 


179 


"All  is  in  readiness,"  he  assured  her.  Then,  lower- 
ing his  voice  without  apparent  reason,  and  speaking 
quickly  and  intently,  "  I  must  go  find  out  what  I  can," 
he  said.  "There  may  be  a  risk,  but  it  is  as  nothing 
to  the  risk  we  run  of  blundering  matters  through 
ignorance  of  what  may  be  afoot.  Should  any  one 
come  —  which  is  unlikely,  for  all  those  interested  will 
be  in  the  hall  until  the  courier  is  dealt  with  —  and 
should  they  inquire  into  my  absence,  you  are  to  know 
nothing  of  it  since  you  have  no  Italian  and  I  no 
French.  All  that  you  will  know  will  be  that  you  be- 
lieve I  went  but  a  moment  since  to  fetch  water.  You 
understand?" 

She  nodded. 

"Then  lock  yourself  in  your  chamber  till  I  return." 

He  caught  up  a  large  earthenware  vessel  in  which 
water  was  kept  for  his  own  and  mademoiselle's  use, 
emptied  it  through  the  guard-room  window  into  the 
moat  below,  then  left  the  room  and  made  his  way 
down  the  steps  to  the  courtyard. 

He  peered  out.  Not  a  soul  was  in  sight.  This  inner 
courtyard  was  little  tenanted  at  that  time  of  day, 
and  the  sentry  at  the  door  of  the  tower  was  only 
placed  there  at  nightfall.  Alongside  this  there  stood 
another  door,  opening  into  a  passage  from  which 
access  might  be  gained  to  any  part  of  the  chateau. 
Thrusting  behind  that  door  the  earthenware  vessel 
that  he  carried,  Garnache  sped  swiftly  down  the  corri- 
dor on  his  eavesdropping  errand.  Still  his  mind  was  in 
conflict.  At  times  he  cursed  his  slowness,  at  times  his 
haste  and  readiness  to  undertake  so  dirty  a  business, 
wishing  all  women  at  the  devil  since  by  the  work  of 
women  was  he  put  to  such  a  shift  as  this. 


CHAPTER  XIV 


FLORIMOND'S  LETTER 

IN  the  great  hall  of  Condillac,  where  the  Marquise, 
her  son,  and  Mademoiselle  de  La  Vauvraye  had 
been  at  dinner,  a  sudden  confusion  had  been  spread  by 
the  arrival  of  that  courier  so  soon  as  it  was  known  that 
he  bore  letters  from  Florimond,  Marquis  de  Condillac. 

Madame  had  risen  hastily,  fear  and  defiance  blend- 
ing in  her  face,  and  she  had  at  once  commanded  made- 
moiselle's withdrawal.  Valerie  had  wondered  might 
there  not  be  letters  —  or,  leastways,  messages  —  for 
herself  from  her  betrothed.  But  her  pride  had  sup- 
pressed the  eager  question  that  welled  up  to  her  lips. 
She  would,  too,  have  questioned  the  courier  concern- 
ing Florimond's  health;  she  would  have  asked  him 
how  the  Marquis  looked,  and  where  the  messenger 
had  left  him.  But  of  all  this  that  she  craved  to  know, 
nothing  could  she  bring  herself  to  ask  before  the 
Marquise. 

She  rose  in  silence  upon  hearing  the  Dowager  order 
Fortunio  to  summon  Battista  that  he  might  re-conduct 
mademoiselle  to  her  apartments,  and  she  moved  a  few 
paces  down  the  hall,  towards  the  door,  in  proud,  sub- 
missive readiness  to  depart.  Yet  she  could  not  keep 
her  eyes  from  the  dust-stained  courier,  who,  having 
flung  his  hat  and  whip  upon  the  floor,  was  now  open- 
ing his  wallet,  the  Dowager  standing  before  him  to 
receive  his  papers. 

Marius,  affecting  an  insouciance  he  did  not  feel,  re- 


FLORIMOND'S  LETTER  181 


mained  at  table,  his  page  behind  his  chair,  his  hound 
stretched  at  his  feet;  and  he  now  sipped  his  wine,  now 
held  it  to  the  light  that  he  might  observe  the  beauty 
of  its  deep  red  colour. 

At  last  Fortunio  returned,  and  mademoiselle  took 
her  departure,  head  in  the  air  and  outwardly  seeming 
nowise  concerned  in  what  was  taking  place.  With  her 
went  Fortunio.  And  the  Marquise,  who  now  held  the 
package  she  had  received  from  the  courier,  bade  the 
page  depart  also. 

When  the  three  were  at  last  alone,  she  paused 
before  opening  the  letter  and  turned  again  to  the 
messenger.  She  made  a  brave  figure  in  the  flood  of 
sunlight  that  poured  through  the  gules  and  azures  of 
the  long  blazoned  windows,  her  tall,  lissome  figure 
clad  in  a  close-fitting  robe  of  black  velvet,  her  abun- 
dant glossy  black  hair  rolled  back  under  its  white  coif, 
her  black  eyes  and  scarlet  lips  detaching  from  the 
ivory  of  her  face,  in  which  no  trace  of  emotion  showed, 
for  all  the  anxiety  that  consumed  her. 

"Where  left  you  the  Marquis  de  Condillac?"  she 
asked  the  fellow. 

"At  La  Rochette,  madame,"  the  courier  answered* 
and  his  answer  brought  Marius  to  his  feet  with  an 
oath. 

"So  near?"  he  cried  out.  But  the  Dowager's 
glance  remained  calm  and  untroubled. 

"How  does  it  happen  that  he  did  not  hasten  him- 
self, to  Condillac?"  she  asked. 

"I  do  not  know,  madame.  I  did  not  see  Monsieur 
le  Marquis.  It  was  his  servant  brought  me  that  letter 
with  orders  to  ride  hither." 

Marius  approached  his  mother,  his  brow  clouded 


182 


SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


"Let  us  see  what  he  says,"  he  suggested  anxiously. 
But  his  mother  did  not  heed  him.  She  stood  balanc- 
ing the  package  in  her  hand. 

"Can  you  tell  us,  then,  nothing  of  Monsieur  le 
Marquis?" 

"Nothing  more  than  I  have  told  you,  madame." 

She  bade  Marius  call  Fortunio,  and  then  dismissed 
the  courier,  bidding  her  captain  see  to  his  refreshment. 

Then,  alone  at  last  with  her  son,  she  hastily  tore  the 
covering  from  the  letter,  unfolded  it  and  read.  And 
Marius,  moved  by  anxiety,  came  to  stand  beside  and 
just  behind  her,  where  he  too  might  read.  The  letter 
ran: 

"My  very  dear  Marquise,  —  I  do  not  doubt  but 
that  it  will  pleasure  you  to  hear  that  I  am  on  my  way 
home,  and  that  but  for  a  touch  of  fever  that  has 
detair  ed  us  here  at  La  Rochette,  I  should  be  at 
Condillac  as  soon  as  the  messenger  who  is  the  bearer 
of  these  presents.  A  courier  from  Paris  found  me  a 
fortnight  since  in  Milan,  with  letters  setting  forth 
that  my  father  had  been  dead  six  months,  and  that  it 
was  considered  expedient  at  Court  that  I  should  re- 
turn home  forthwith  to  assume  the  administration  of 
Condillac.  I  am  lost  in  wonder  that  a  communication 
of  this  nature  should  have  been  addressed  to  me  from 
Paris  instead  of  from  you,  as  surely  it  must  have  been 
your  duty  to  advise  me  of  my  father's  decease  at  the 
time  of  that  untoward  event.  I  am  cast  down  by  grief 
at  this  evil  news,  and  the  summons  from  Court  has 
brought  me  in  all  haste  from  Milan.  The  lack  of 
news  from  Condillac  has  been  for  months  a  matter 
of  surprise  to  me.  My  father's  death  may  be  some 


FLORIMOND'S  LETTER  183 


explanation  of  this,  but  scarcely  explanation  enough. 
However,  madame,  I  count  upon  it  that  you  will  be 
able  to  dispel  such  doubts  as  I  am  fostering.  I  count, 
too,  upon  being  at  Condillac  by  the  end  of  the  week, 
but  I  beg  that  neither  you  nor  my  dear  Marius  will 
allow  this  circumstance  to  make  any  difference  to 
yourselves,  just  as,  although  I  am  returning  to  as- 
sume the  government  of  Condillac  as  the  Court  has 
suggested  to  me,  I  hope  that  yourself  and  my  dear 
brother  will  continue  to  make  it  your  home  for  as  long 
as  it  shall  pleasure  you.  So  long  shall  it  pleasure  me. 

"  I  am,  my  very  dear  marquise,  your  very  humble 
and  very  affectionate  servant  and  stepson, 

"Florimond" 

When  she  had  read  to  the  end,  the  Dowager  turned 
back  and  read  aloud  the  passage:  "However,  madame, 
I  count  upon  it  that  you  will  be  able  to  dispel  such 
doubts  as  I  am  fostering."  She  looked  at  her  son,  who 
had  shifted  his  position,  so  that  he  was  now  confront- 
ing her. 

"He  has  his  suspicions  that  all  is  not  as  it  should 
be,"  sneered  Marius. 

"Yet  his  tone  is  amiable  throughout.  It  cannot  be 
that  they  said  too  much  in  that  letter  from  Paris."  A 
little  trill  of  bitter  laughter  escaped  her.  "We  are  to 
continue  to  make  this  our  home  for  as  long  as  it  shall 
pleasure  us.  So  long  shall  it  pleasure  him!" 

Then,  with  a  sudden  seriousness,  she  folded  the 
letter  and,  putting  her  hands  behind  her,  looked  up 
into  her  son's  face. 

"Well?"  she  asked.  "What  are  you  going  to 
do?" 


i84  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


"Strange  that  he  makes  no  mention  of  Valerie!" 
said  Marius  pensively. 

"Pooh!  A  Condillac  thinks  lightly  of  his  women. 
What  are  you  going  to  do  ? " 

His  handsome  countenance,  so  marvellously  like 
her  own,  was  overcast.  He  looked  gloomily  at  his 
mother  for  a  moment;  then  with  a  slight  twitch  of  the 
shoulders  he  turned  and  moved  past  her  slowly  in  the 
direction  of  the  hearth.  He  leaned  his  elbow  on  the 
overmantel  and  rested  his  brow  against  his  clenched 
right  hand,  and  stood  so  awhile  in  moody  thought 
She  watched  him,  a  frown  between  her  arrogant  eyes. 

"Aye,  ponder  it,"  said  she.  "He  is  at  La  Rochette, 
within  a  day's  ride,  and  only  detained  there  by  a 
touch  of  fever.  In  any  case  he  promises  to  be  here  by 
the  end  of  the  week.  By  Saturday,  then,  Condillac  will 
have  passed  out  of  our  power;  it  will  be  lost  to  you 
irretrievably.  Will  you  lose  La  Vauvraye  as  well?" 

He  let  his  hand  fall  to  his  side,  and  turned,  fully  to 
face  her. 

"What  can  I  do?  What  can  we  do?"  he  asked,  a 
shade  of  petulance  in  his  question. 

She  stepped  close  up  to  him  and  rested  her  hand 
lightly  upon  his  shoulder. 

"You  have  had  three  months  in  which  to  woo  that 
girl,  and  you  have  tarried  sadly  over  it,  Marius.  You 
have  now  at  most  three  days  in  which  to  accomplish 
it.  What  will  you  do?" 

"I  have  been  maladroit  perhaps,"  he  said,  with 
bitterness.  "I  have  been  over-patient  with  her.  I 
have  counted  too  much  upon  the  chance  of  Flori- 
mond's  being  dead,  as  seemed  from  the  utter  lack  of 
news  of  him.  Yet  what  could  I  do  ?  Carry  her  off  by 


FLORIMOND'S  LETTER  185 


force  and  compel  at  the  dagger's  point  some  priest  to 
marry  us?" 

She  moved  her  hand  from  his  shoulder  and  smiled, 
as  if  she  derided  him  and  his  heat. 

"You  want  for  invention,  Marius,"  said  she.  "And 
yet  I  beg  that  you  will  exert  your  mind,  or  Sunday 
next  shall  find  us  well-nigh  homeless.  I'll  take  no 
charity  from  the  Marquis  de  Condillac,  nor,  I  think, 
will  you." 

"If  all  fails,"  said  he,  "we  have  still  your  house  in 
Touraine." 

"My  house?"  she  echoed,  her  voice  shrill  with 
scorn.  "  My  hovel,  you  would  say.  Could  you  abide 
there  —  in  such  a  sty?" 

"  Vertudieul  If  all  else  failed,  we  might  be  glad  of 
it." 

"Glad  of  it?  Not  I,  for  one.  Yet  all  else  will  fail 
unless  you  bestir  yourself  in  the  next  three  days.  Con- 
dillac  is  as  good  as  lost  to  you  already,  since  Flori- 
mond  is  upon  the  threshold.  La  Vauvraye  most 
certainly  will  be  lost  to  you  as  well  unless  you  make 
haste  to  snatch  it  in  the  little  moment  that  is  left  you." 

"  Can  I  achieve  the  impossible,  madame? "  he  cried, 
and  his  impatience  waxed  beneath  this  unreasonable 
insistence  of  his  mother's. 

"Who  asks  it  of  you?" 

"Do  not  you,  madame?" 

"  I  ?  Pish !  All  that  I  urge  is  that  you  take  Valerie 
across  the  border  into  Savoy  where  you  can  find  a 
priest  to  marry  you,  and  get  it  done  this  side  of 
Saturday." 

"And  is  not  that  the  impossible?  She  will  not  go 
with  me,  as  you  well  know,  madame." 


1 86  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


There  was  a  moment's  silence.  The  Dowager  shot 
him  a  glance;  then  her  eyes  fell.  Her  bosom  stirred 
as  if  some  strange  excitement  moved  her.  Fear  and 
shame  were  her  emotions;  for  a  way  she  knew  by 
which  mademoiselle  might  be  induced  to  go  with  him 
—  not  only  willingly,  but  eagerly,  she  thought  —  to 
the  altar.  But  she  was  his  mother,  and  even  her  harsh 
nature  shuddered  before  the  task  of  instructing  him  in 
this  vile  thing.  Why  had  the  fool  not  wit  enough  to 
see  it  for  himself? 

Observing  her  silence  Marius  smiled  sardonically. 

"You  may  well  ponder  it,"  said  he.  "It  is  an  easy 
matter  to  tell  me  what  I  should  do.  Tell  me,  rather, 
how  it  should  be  done." 

His  blindness  stirred  her  anger,  and  her  anger 
whelmed  her  hesitation. 

"Were  I  in  your  place,  Marius,  I  should  find  a 
way,"  said  she,  in  a  voice  utterly  expressionless,  her 
eyes  averted  ever  from  his  own. 

He  scanned  her  curiously.  Her  agitation  was  plain 
to  him,  and  it  puzzled  him,  as  did  the  downcast  glance 
of  eyes  usually  so  bold  and  insolent  in  their  gaze. 
Then  he  pondered  her  tone,  so  laden  with  expression 
by  its  very  expressionlessness,  and  suddenly  a  flood  of 
light  broke  upon  his  mind,  revealing  very  clearly  and 
hideously  her  meaning.  He  caught  his  breath  with  a 
sudden  gasp  and  blenched  a  little.  Then  his  lips 
tightened  suddenly. 

"In  that  case,  madame,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  and 
speaking  as  if  he  were  still  without  revelation  of  her 
meaning,  "I  can  but  regret  that  you  are  not  in  my 
place.  For,  as  it  is,  I  am  thinking  we  shall  have  to 
make  the  best  of  the  hovel  in  Touraine." 


FLORIMOND'S  LETTER  187 


She  bit  her  lip  in  the  intensity  of  her  chagrin  and 
shame.  She  was  no  fool,  nor  did  she  imagine  from  his 
words  that  her  meaning  had  been  lost  upon  him.  She 
knew  that  he  had  understood,  and  that  he  chose  to 
pretend  that  he  had  not.  She  looked  up  suddenly,  her 
dark  eyes  blazing,  a  splash  of  colour  in  either  cheek. 

"Fool!"  she  snapped  at  him;  "you  lily-livered  fool! 
Are  you  indeed  my  son  ?  Are  you  —  by  God !  —  that 
you  talk  so  lightly  of  yielding? "  She  advanced  a  step 
in  his  direction.  "  Through  your  cowardice  you  may 
be  content  to  spend  your  days  in  beggary;  not  so  am 
I ;  nor  shall  I  be,  so  long  as  I  have  an  arm  and  a  voice. 
You  may  go  hence  if  your  courage  fails  you  outright; 
but  I'll  throw  up  the  bridge  and  entrench  myself 
within  these  walls.  Florimond  de  Condillac  sets  no 
foot  in  here  while  I  live;  and  if  he  should  come  within 
range  of  musket-shot,  it  will  be  the  worse  for  him." 

"  I  think  you  are  mad,  madame  —  mad  so  to  talk  of 
resisting  him,  as  you  are  mad  to  call  me  coward.  I'll 
leave  you  till  you  are  come  to  a  more  tranquil  frame 
of  mind."  And  turning  upon  his  heel,  his  face  on  fire 
from  the  lash  of  her  contempt,  he  strode  down  the 
hall  and  passed  out,  leaving  her  alone. 

White  again,  with  heaving  bosom  and  clenched 
hands,  she  stood  a  moment  where  he  had  left  her,  then 
dropped  into  a  chair,  and  taking  her  chin  in  her  hand 
she  rested  her  elbow  on  her  knee.  Thus  she  remained, 
the  firelight  tinting  her  perfect  profile,  on  which  little 
might  be  read  of  the  storm  that  was  raging  in  her  soul. 
Another  woman  in  her  place  would  have  sought  relief 
in  tears,  but  tears  came  rarely  to  the  beautiful  eyes  of 
the  Marquise  de  Condillac. 

She  sat  there  until  the  sun  had  passed  from  the 


1 88  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


windows  behind  her  and  the  corners  of  the  room  were 
lost  in  the  quickening  shadows.  At  last  she  was 
disturbed  by  the  entrance  of  a  lackey,  who  an- 
nounced that  Monsieur  le  Comte  de  Tressan,  Lord 
Seneschal  of  Dauphiny,  was  come  to  Condillac. 

She  bade  the  fellow  call  help  to  clear  the  board, 
where  still  was  set  their  interrupted  noontide  meal, 
and  then  to  admit  the  Seneschal.  With  her  back  to 
the  stirring,  bustling  servants  she  stood,  pensively 
regarding  the  flames,  and  a  smile  that  was  mocking 
rather  than  aught  else  spread  upon  her  face. 

If  all  else  failed  her,  she  told  herself,  there  would 
be  no  Touraine  hovel  for  her.  She  could  always  be 
Comtesse  de  Tressan.  Let  Marius  work  out  alone 
the  punishment  of  his  cowardice. 

Away  in  the  Northern  Tower,  where  mademoiselle 
was  lodged,  she  sat  in  eager  talk  with  Garnache,  who 
had  returned  unobserved  and  successful  from  his 
journey  of  espionage. 

He  had  told  her  what  from  the  conversation  of 
Marius  and  his  mother  he  had  learned  touching  the 
contents  of  that  letter.  Florimond  lay  as  near  as  La 
Rochette,  detained  there  by  a  touch  of  fever,  but 
promising  to  be  at  Condillac  by  the  end  of  the  week. 
Since  that  was  so,  Valerie  opined  there  was  no  longer 
the  need  to  put  themselves  to  the  trouble  of  the  escape 
they  had  planned.  Let  them  wait  until  Florimond 
came. 

But  Garnache  shook  his  head.  He  had  heard  more; 
and  for  all  that  he  accounted  her  at  present  safe  from 
Marius,  yet  he  made  no  false  estimate  of  that  supple 
gentleman's  character,  was  not  deluded  by  his  mo- 
mentary show  of  niceness.  As  the  time  of  Florimond's 


FLORIMOND'S  LETTER  189 


arrival  grew  nearer,  he  thought  it  very  possible  that 
Marius  might  be  rendered  desperate.  There  was 
grave  danger  in  remaining.  He  said  naught  of  this, 
yet  he  convinced  mademoiselle  that  it  were  best  to  go. 

"Though  there  will  no  longer  be  the  need  of  a  toil- 
some journey  as  far  as  Paris,"  he  concluded.  "A  four 
hours'  ride  to  La  Rochette,  and  you  may  embrace 
your  betrothed." 

"Did  he  speak  of  me  in  his  letter,  know  you,  mon- 
sieur?" she  inquired. 

"I  heard  them  say  that  he  did  not,"  Garnache 
replied.  "  But  it  may  well  be  that  he  had  good  reason. 
He  may  suspect  more  than  he  has  written." 

"In  that  case,"  she  asked  —  and  there  was  a 
wounded  note  in  her  voice  —  "  Why  should  a  touch  of 
fever  keep  him  at  La  Rochette?  Would  a  touch  of 
fever  keep  you  from  the  woman  you  loved,  monsieur, 
if  you  knew,  or  even  suspected,  that  she  was  in 
durance?" 

"I  do  not  know,  mademoiselle.  I  am  an  old  man 
who  has  never  loved,  and  so  it  would  be  unfair  of  me 
to  pass  judgment  upon  lovers.  That  they  think  not  as 
other  folk  is  notorious;  their  minds  are  for  the  time 
disordered." 

Nevertheless  he  looked  at  her  where  she  sat  by  the 
window,  so  gentle,  so  lissome,  so  sweet,  and  so  frail, 
and  he  had  a  shrewd  notion  that  were  he  Florimond 
de  Condillac,  whether  he  feared  her  in  durance  or  not, 
not  the  fever,  nor  the  plague  itself  should  keep  him 
for  the  best  part  of  a  week  at  La  Rochette  within  easy 
ride  of  her. 

She  smiled  gently  at  his  words,  and  turned  the 
conversation  to  the  matter  that  imported  most. 


i9o  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


"  To-night,  then,  it  is  determined  that  we  are  to  go  ? " 

"At  midnight  or  a  little  after.  Be  in  readiness, 
mademoiselle,  and  do  not  keep  me  waiting  when  I  rap 
upon  your  door.  Haste  may  be  of  importance." 

"You  may  count  upon  me,  my  friend,"  she  an- 
swered him,  and  stirred  by  a  sudden  impulse  she  held 
out  her  hand.  "You  have  been  very  good  to  me, 
Monsieur  de  Garnache.  You  have  made  life  very 
different  for  me  since  your  coming.  I  had  it  in  my 
mind  to  blame  you  once  for  your  rashness  in  returning 
alone.  I  was  a  little  fool.  You  can  never  know  the 
peace  that  has  come  to  me  from  having  you  at  hand. 
The  fears,  the  terrors  that  possessed  me  before  you 
came  have  all  been  dispelled  in  this  last  week  that  you 
have  been  my  sentry  in  two  senses." 

He  took  the  hand  she  held  out  to  him,  and  looked 
down  at  her  out  of  his  grimy,  disfigured  face,  an  odd 
tenderness  stirring  him.  He  felt  as  might  have  felt  a 
father  towards  his  daughter  —  at  least,  so  thought  he 
then. 

"  Child,"  he  answered  her,  "  you  overrate  it.  I  have 
done  no  less  than  I  could  do,  no  more  than  any  other 
would  have  done." 

"Yet  more  than  Florimond  has  done  —  and  he  my 
betrothed.  A  touch  of  fever  was  excuse  enough  to 
keep  him  at  La  Rochette,  whilst  the  peril  of  death  did 
not  suffice  to  deter  you  from  coming  hither." 

"You  forget,  mademoiselle,  that,  maybe,  he  does 
not  know  your  circumstances." 

"Maybe  he  does  not,"  said  she,  with  a  half-sigh. 
Then  she  looked  up  into  his  face  again.  "I  am  sad  at 
the  thought  of  going,  monsieur,"  she  surprised  him  by 
saying. 


FLORIMOND'S  LETTER 


"Sad?"  he  cried.  Then  he  laughed.  "But  what  can 
there  be  to  sadden  you?" 

"This,  monsieur:  that  after  to-night  it  is  odds  I 
shall  never  see  you  more."  She  said  it  without  hesita- 
tion and  without  coquetry,  for  her  upbringing  had 
been  simple  and  natural  —  in  an  atmosphere  different 
far  from  that  in  which  had  been  reared  the  courtly 
women  he  had  known.  "You  will  return  to  Paris  and 
the  great  world,  and  I  shall  live  out  my  life  in  this 
little  corner  of  Dauphiny.  You  will  forget  me  in  the 
bustle  of  your  career,  monsieur;  but  I  shall  always 
hold  your  memory  very  dear  and  very  gratefully. 
You  are  the  only  friend  I  have  ever  known  since  my 
father  died  —  excepting  Florimond,  though  it  is  so 
long  since  I  have  seen  him,  and  he  never  came  to  me 
in  times  of  stress  as  you  have  done." 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  answered,  touched  despite 
himself  —  more  touched  than  he  could  have  believed 
possible  to  his  callous,  world-worn  nature  —  "you 
make  me  very  proud;  you  make  me  feel  a  little  bet- 
ter than  I  am,  for  if  I  have  earned  your  regard  and 
friendship,  there  must  be  some  good  in  old  Garnache. 
Believe  me,  mademoiselle,  I  too  shall  not  forget." 

And  thereafter  they  remained  a  spell  in  silence,  she 
sitting  by  the  window,  gazing  out  into  the  bright 
October  sky,  he  standing  by  her  chair,  thoughtfully 
considering  her  brown  head  so  gracefully  set  upon  her 
little  shoulders.  A  feeling  came  to  him  that  was  odd 
and  unusual;  he  sought  to  interpret  it,  and  he  sup- 
posed it  to  mean  that  he  wished  that  at  some  time  in 
the  dim  past  he  might  have  married  some  woman 
who  would  have  borne  him  for  daughter  such  an  one 
as  this. 


CHAPTER  XV 


THE  CONFERENCE 

THE  matter  that  brought  Monsieur  de  Tressan  to 
Condillac  —  and  brought  him  in  most  fearful 
haste  —  was  the  matter  of  the  courier  who  had  that 
day  arrived  at  the  chateau. 

News  of  it  had  reached  the  ears  of  my  Lord  Sene- 
schal. His  mind  had  been  a  prey  to  uneasiness  con- 
cerning this  business  of  rebellion  in  which  he  had  so 
rashly  lent  a  hand,  and  he  was  anxious  to  know  whence 
came  this  courier  and  what  news  he  brought.  But  for 
all  his  haste  he  had  paused  —  remembering  it  was 
the  Marquise  he  went  to  visit  —  to  don  the  gorgeous 
yellow  suit  with  the  hanging  sleeves  which  he  had 
had  from  Paris,  and  the  crimson  sash  he  had  bought 
at  Taillemant's,  all  in  the  very  latest  mode. 

Thus  arrayed,  his  wig  well  curled  and  a  clump  of  it 
caught  in  ribbon  of  flame-coloured  silk  on  the  left  side, 
his  sword  hanging  from  belt  and  carriages  richly 
wrought  with  gold,  and  the  general  courtierlike  effect 
rather  marred  by  the  heavy  riding-boots  which  he 
would  have  liked  to  leave  behind  yet  was  constrained 
to  wear,  he  presented  himself  before  the  Dowager, 
hiding  his  anxiety  in  a  melting  smile,  and  the  latter  in 
the  profoundest  of  bows. 

The  graciousness  of  his  reception  overwhelmed  him 
almost,  for  in  his  supreme  vanity  he  lacked  the  wit  to 
see  that  this  cordiality  might  be  dictated  by  no  more 
than  the  need  they  had  of  him  at  Condillac.  A  lackey 


THE  CONFERENCE 


!93 


placed  a  great  chair  for  him  by  the  fire  that  he  might 
warm  himself  after  his  evening  ride,  and  the  Dowager, 
having  ordered  lights,  sate  herself  opposite  him  with 
the  hearth  between  them. 

He  simpered  awhile  and  toyed  with  trivialities  of 
speech  before  he  gave  utterance  to  the  matter  that 
absorbed  him.  Then,  at  last,  when  they  were  alone, 
he  loosed  the  question  that  was  bubbling  on  his  lips. 

"I  hear  a  courier  came  to  Condillac  to-day." 

For  answer  she  told  him  what  he  sought  to  learn, 
whence  came  that  courier,  and  what  the  message  that 
he  brought. 

"And  so,  Monsieur  de  Tressan,"  she  ended,  "my 
days  at  Condillac  are  numbered." 

"Why  so?"  he  asked,  "since  you  say  that  Flori- 
mond  has  adopted  towards  you  a  friendly  tone. 
Surely  he  would  not  drive  his  father's  widow  hence?" 

She  smiled  at  the  fire  in  a  dreamy,  pensive  man- 
ner. 

"No,"  said  she,  "he  would  not  drive  me  hence.  He 
has  offered  me  the  shelter  of  Condillac  for  as  long  as  it 
may  pleasure  me  to  make  it  my  home." 

"Excellent!"  he  exclaimed,  rubbing  his  little  fat 
hands  and  screwing  the  little  features  of  his  huge  red 
face  into  the  grotesque  semblance  of  a  smile.  "What 
need  to  talk  of  going,  then?" 

"What  need?"  she  echoed,  in  a  voice  dull  and 
concentrated.  "Do  you  ask  that,  Tressan?  Do  you 
think  I  should  elect  to  live  upon  the  charity  of  this 
man?" 

For  all  that  the  Lord  Seneschal  may  have  been  dull- 
witted,  yet  he  had  wit  enough  to  penetrate  to  the  very 
marrow  of  her  meaning. 


i94  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


"You  must  hate  Florimond  very  bitterly,"  said  he. 
She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"I  possess,  I  think,  the  faculty  of  feeling  strongly. 
I  can  love  well,  monsieur,  and  I  can  hate  well.  It  is 
one  or  the  other  with  me.  And  as  cordially  as  I  love 
my  own  son  Marius,  as  cordially  do  I  detest  this 
coxcomb  Florimond." 

She  expressed  no  reasons  for  her  hatred  of  her  late 
husband's  elder  son.  Hers  were  not  reasons  that  could 
easily  be  put  into  words.  They  were  little  reasons, 
trivial  grains  of  offence  which  through  long  years  had 
accumulated  into  a  mountain.  They  had  their  begin- 
ning in  the  foolish  grievance  that  had  its  birth  with 
her  own  son,  when  she  had  realized  that  but  for 
that  rosy-cheeked,  well-grown  boy  borne  to  the  Mar- 
quis by  his  first  wife,  Marius  would  have  been  heir 
to  Condillac.  Her  love  of  her  own  child  and  her 
ambitions  for  him,  her  keen  desire  to  see  him  fill  an 
exalted  position  in  the  world,  caused  her  a  thousand 
times  a  day  to  wish  his  half-brother  dead.  Yet  Flori- 
mond had  flourished  and  grown,  and  as  he  grew  he 
manifested  a  character  which,  with  all  its  imperfec- 
tions, was  more  lovable  than  the  nature  of  her  own 
offspring.  And  their  common  father  had  never  seen 
aught  but  the  faults  of  Marius  and  the  virtues  of 
Florimond.  She  had  resented  this,  and  Marius  had 
resented  it;  and  Marius,  having  inherited  with  his 
mother's  beauty  his  mother's  arrogant,  dominant 
spirit,  had  returned  with  insolence  such  admonitions 
as  from  time  to  time  his  father  gave  him,  and  thus  the 
breach  had  grown.  Later,  since  he  could  not  be  heir 
to  Condillac,  the  Marquise's  eyes,  greedy  of  advance- 
ment for  him,  had  fallen  covetously  upon  the  richer 


THE  CONFERENCE 


195 


La  Vauvraye,  whose  lord  had  then  no  son,  whose 
heiress  was  a  little  girl. 

By  an  alliance  easy  to  compass,  since  the  lords 
of  Condillac  and  La  Vauvraye  were  lifelong  friends, 
Marius's  fortunes  might  handsomely  have  been 
mended.  Yet  when  she  herself  bore  the  suggestion  of 
it  to  the  Marquis,  he  had  seized  upon  it,  approved  it, 
but  adopted  it  for  Florimond's  benefit  instead. 

Thereafter  war  had  raged  fiercely  in  the  family  of 
Condillac  —  a  war  between  the  Marquis  and  Flori- 
mond  on  the  one  side,  and  the  Marquise  and  Marius 
on  the  other.  And  so  bitterly  was  it  waged  that  it  was 
by  the  old  Marquis's  suggestion  that  at  last  Flori- 
mond  had  gone  upon  his  travels  to  see  the  world  and 
carry  arms  in  foreign  service. 

Her  hopes  that  he  would  take  his  death,  as  was  a 
common  thing  when  warring,  rose  high  —  so  high  as 
to  become  almost  assurance,  a  thing  to  be  reckoned 
with.  Florimond  would  return  no  more,  and  her  son 
should  fill  the  place  to  which  he  was  entitled  by  his 
beauty  of  person  and  the  high  mental  gifts  his  doting 
mother  saw  in  him. 

Yet  the  months  grew  into  years,  and  at  long  inter- 
vals —  intervals  full  of  hope  for  the  Marquise  — 
news  came  of  Florimond,  and  the  news  was  ever  that 
he  was  well  and  thriving,  gathering  honours  and  drink- 
ing deep  of  life. 

And  now,  at  last,  when  matters  seemed  to  have  been 
tumbled  into  her  lap  that  she  might  dispose  of  them 
as  she  listed;  now,  when  in  her  anxiety  to  see  her  son 
supplant  his  step-brother  in  the  possession  of  La  Vau- 
vraye —  if  not,  perhaps,  in  that  of  Condillac  as  well 
—  she  had  done  a  rashness  which  might  end  in  mak- 


196  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


ing  her  and  Marius  outlaws,  news  came  that  this 
hated  Florimond  was  at  the  door;  tardily  returned, 
yet  returned  in  time  to  overthrow  her  schemes  and  to 
make  her  son  the  pauper  that  her  husband's  will  had 
seemed  to  aim  at  rendering  him. 

Her  mind  skimmed  lightly  over  all  these  matters, 
seeking  somewhere  some  wrong  that  should  stand  out 
stark  and  glaring,  upon  which  she  might  seize,  and 
offer  it  to  the  Seneschal  as  an  explanation  of  her 
hatred.  But  nowhere  could  she  find  the  thing  she 
sought.  Her  hatred  had  for  foundation  a  material  too 
impalpable  to  be  fashioned  into  words.  Tressan's 
voice  aroused  her  from  her  thoughts. 

"Have  you  laid  no  plans,  madame?"he  asked  her. 
"It  were  surely  a  madness  now  to  attempt  to  with- 
stand the  Marquis." 

"The  Marquis?  Ah  yes  —  Florimond."  She  sat 
forward  out  of  the  shadows  in  which  her  great  chair 
enveloped  her,  and  let  candle  and  firelight  play  about 
the  matchless  beauty  of  her  perfect  face.  There  was  a 
flush  upon  it,  the  flush  of  battle;  and  she  was  about  to 
tell  the  Seneschal  that  not  while  one  stone  of  Con- 
dillac  should  stand  upon  another,  not  while  a  gasp  of 
breath  remained  in  her  frail  body,  would  she  sur- 
render. But  she  checked  her  rashness.  Well  might  it 
be  that  in  the  end  she  should  abandon  such  a  purpose. 
Tressan  was  ugly  as  a  toad,  the  most  absurd,  ridicu- 
lous bridegroom  that  ever  led  woman  to  the  altar. 
Yet  rumour  ran  that  he  was  rich,  and  as  a  last  resource, 
for  the  sake  of  his  possessions  she  might  bring  herself 
to  endure  his  signal  shortcomings. 

"I  have  taken  no  resolve  as  yet,"  said  she,  in  a 
wistful  voice.  "I  founded  hopes  upon  Marius  which 


THE  CONFERENCE 


197 


Marius  threatens  to  frustrate.  I  think  I  had  best 
resign  myself  to  the  poverty  of  my  Touraine 
home." 

And  then  the  Seneschal  realized  that  the  time  was 
now.  The  opportunity  he  might  have  sought  in  vain 
was  almost  thrust  upon  him.  In  the  spirit  he  blessed 
Florimond  for  returning  so  opportunely;  in  the  flesh 
he  rose  from  the  chair  and,  without  more  ado,  he  cast 
himself  upon  his  knees  before  the  Dowager.  He  cast 
himself  down,  and  the  Dowager  experienced  a  faint 
stirring  of  surprise  that  she  heard  no  flop  such  as 
must  attend  the  violent  falling  of  so  fat  a  body.  But 
the  next  instant,  realizing  the  purpose  of  his  absurd 
posture,  she  shrank  back  with  a  faint  gasp,  and  her 
face  was  mercifully  blurred  to  his  sight  once  more 
amid  the  shadows  of  her  chair.  Thus  was  he  spared 
the  look  of  utter  loathing,  of  unconquerable,  irrepress- 
ible disgust  that  leapt  into  her  countenance. 

His  voice  quivered  with  ridiculous  emotion,  his 
little  fat  red  fingers  trembled  as  he  outheld  them  in  a 
theatrical  gesture  of  supplication. 

"Never  contemplate  poverty,  madame,  until  you 
have  discarded  me/'  he  implored  her.  "Say  but  that 
you  will,  and  you  shall  be  lady  of  Tressan.  All  that  I 
have  would  prove  but  poor  adornment  to  a  beauty 
such  as  yours,  and  I  should  shrink  from  offering  it 
you,  were  it  not  that,  with  it  all,  I  can  offer  you  the 
fondest  heart  in  France.  Marquise  —  Clotilde,  I  cast 
myself  humbly  at  your  feet.  Do  with  me  as  you  will. 
I  love  you." 

By  an  effort  she  crushed  down  her  loathing  of  him 
—  a  loathing  that  grew  a  hundredfold  as  she  beheld 
him  now  transformed  by  his  amorousness  into  the 


198  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


semblance  almost  of  a  satyr  —  and  listened  to  his 
foolish  rantings. 

As  Marquise  de  Condillac  it  hurt  her  pride  to  listen 
and  not  have  him  whipped  for  his  audacity;  as  a 
woman  it  insulted  her.  Yet  the  Marquise  and  the 
woman  she  alike  repressed.  She  would  give  him  no 
answer  —  she  could  not,  so  near  was  she  to  fainting 
with  disdain  of  him  —  yet  must  she  give  him  hope 
against  the  time  when,  should  all  else  fail,  she  might 
have  to  swallow  the  bitter  draught  he  was  now  holding 
to  her  lips.  So  she  temporized. 

She  controlled  her  voice  into  a  tone  of  gentle  sad- 
ness; she  set  a  mask  of  sorrow  upon  her  insolent  face. 

"Monsieur,  monsieur,"  she  sighed,  and  so  far  over- 
came her  nausea  as  for  an  instant  to  touch  his  hand  in 
a  little  gesture  of  caress,  "you  must  not  speak  so  to  a 
widow  of  six  months,  nor  must  I  listen." 

The  quivering  grew  in  his  hands  and  voice;  but  no 
longer  did  they  shake  through  fear  of  a  rebuff:  they 
trembled  now  in  the  eager  strength  of  the  hope  he 
gathered  from  her  words.  She  was  so  beautiful,  so 
peerless,  so  noble,  so  proud  —  and  he  so  utterly  un- 
worthy —  that  naught  but  her  plight  had  given  him 
courage  to  utter  his  proposal.  And  she  answered  him 
in  such  terms! 

"You  give  me  hope,  Marquise?  If  I  come 
again  — ?" 

She  sighed,  and  her  face,  which  was  once  more 
within  the  light,  showed  a  look  of  sad  inquiry. 

"If  I  thought  that  what  you  have  said,  you  have 
said  out  of  pity,  because  you  fear  lest  my  necessities 
should  hurt  me,  I  could  give  you  no  hope  at  all.  I  have 
my  pride,  mon  ami.  But  if  what  you  have  said  you 


THE  CONFERENCE 


199 


would  still  have  said  though  I  had  continued  mistress 
of  Condillac,  then,  Tressan,  you  may  repeat  it  to  me 
hereafter,  at  a  season  when  I  may  listen." 

His  joy  welled  up  and  overflowed  in  him  as  over- 
flows a  river  in  time  of  spate. 

He  bent  forward,  caught  her  hand,  and  bore  it  to 
his  lips. 

"Clotilde!"  he  cried,  in  a  smothered  voice;  then 
the  door  opened,  and  Marius  stepped  into  the  long 
chamber. 

At  the  creaking  sound  of  the  opening  door  the 
Seneschal  bestirred  himself  to  rise.  Even  the  very 
young  care  not  so  to  be  surprised,  how  much  less, 
then,  a  man  well  past  the  prime  of  life?  He  came  up 
laboriously  —  the  more  laboriously  by  virtue  of  his 
very  efforts  to  show  himself  still  nimble  in  his  mistress's 
eyes.  Upon  the  intruder  he  turned  a  crimson,  furious 
face,  perspiration  gleaming  like  varnish  on  brow  and 
nose.  At  sight  of  Marius,  who  stood  arrested,  scowling 
villainously  upon  the  pair,  the  fire  died  suddenly  from 
his  glance. 

"Ah,  my  dear  Marius,"  said  he,  with  a  flourish  and 
an  air  of  being  mightily  at  his  ease.  But  the  young 
man's  eyes  went  over  and  beyond  him  to  rest  in  a  look 
of  scrutiny  upon  his  mother.  She  had  risen  too,  and 
he  had  been  in  time  to  see  the  startled  manner  of  her 
rising.  In  her  cheeks  there  was  a  guilty  flush,  but  her 
eyes  boldly  met  and  threw  back  her  son's  regard. 

Marius  came  slowly  down  the  room,  and  no  word 
was  spoken.  The  Seneschal  cleared  his  throat  with 
noisy  nervousness.  Madame  stood  hand  on  hip,  the 
flush  fading  slowly,  her  glance  resuming  its  habitual 
lazy  insolence.  By  the  fire  Marius  paused  and  kicked 


aoo  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


the  logs  into  a  blaze,  regardless  of  the  delicate  fabric 
of  his  rosetted  shoes. 

"Monsieur  le  Seneschal,"  said  madame  calmly, 
"came  to  see  us  in  the  matter  of  the  courier." 

"Ah!"  said  Marius,  with  an  insolent  lifting  of  his 
brows  and  a  sidelong  look  at  Tressan;  and  Tressan 
registered  in  his  heart  a  vow  that  when  he  should  have 
come  to  wed  the  mother,  he  would  not  forget  to  take 
payment  for  that  glance  from  her  pert  son. 

"Monsieur  le  Comte  will  remain  and  sup  with  us 
before  riding  back  to  Grenoble,"  she  added. 

"Ah!"  said  he  again,  in  the  same  tone.  And  that 
for  the  moment  was  all  he  said.  He  remained  by  the 
fire,  standing  between  them  where  he  had  planted 
himself  in  the  flesh,  as  if  to  symbolize  the  attitude  he 
intended  in  the  spirit. 

But  one  chance  he  had,  before  supper  was  laid,  of  a 
word  alone  with  his  mother,  in  her  own  closet. 

"Madame,"  he  said,  his  sternness  mingling  with 
alarm,  "are  you  mad  that  you  encourage  the  suit  of 
this  hedgehog  Tressan?" 

She  looked  him  up  and  down  with  a  deliberate  eye, 
her  lip  curling  a  little. 

"Surely,  Marius,  it  is  my  own  concern." 

"Not  so,"  he  answered  her,  and  his  grasp  fastened 
almost  viciously  on  her  wrist.  "  I  think  that  it  is  mine 
as  well.  Mother,  bethink  you,"  and  his  tone  changed 
to  an  imploring  key,  "bethink  you  what  you  would 
do!  Would  you  — you  —  mate  with  such  a  thing  as 
that?" 

His  emphasis  of  the  pronoun  was  very  eloquent. 
Not  in  all  the  words  of  the  French  language  could  he 
have  told  her  better  how  high  he  placed  her  in  his 


THE  CONFERENCE 


20 1 


thoughts,  how  utterly  she  must  fall,  how  unutterably 
be  soiled  by  an  alliance  with  Tressan. 

"I  had  hoped  you  would  have  saved  me  from  it, 
Marius,"  she  answered  him,  her  eyes  seeming  to  gaze 
down  into  the  depths  of  his.  "At  La  Vauvraye  I  had 
hoped  to  live  out  my  widowhood  in  tranquil  dignity. 
But  —  "  She  let  her  arms  fall  sharply  to  her  sides, 
and  uttered  a  little  sneering  laugh. 

"But,  mother,"  he  cried,  "between  the  dignity  of 
La  Vauvraye  and  the  indignity  of  Tressan,  surely 
there  is  some  middle  course?" 

"Aye,"  she  answered  scornfully,  "starvation  on  a 
dunghill  in  Touraine  —  or  something  near  akin  to  it, 
for  which  I  have  no  stomach." 

He  released  her  wrist  and  stood  with  bent  head, 
clenching  and  unclenching  his  long  white  hands,  and 
she  watched  him,  watching  in  him  the  working  of  his 
proud  and  stubborn  spirit. 

"Mother,"  he  cried  at  last,  and  the  word  sounded 
absurd  between  them,  by  so  little  did  he  seem  the 
younger  of  the  twain,  "mother,  you  shall  not  do  it  — 
you  must  not!" 

"You  leave  me  little  alternative  —  alas!"  sighed 
she.  "Had  you  been  more  adroit  you  had  been  wed 
by  now,  Marius,  and  the  future  would  give  us  no  con- 
cern. As  it  is,  Florimond  comes  home,  and  we — " 
She  spread  her  hands  and  thrust  out  her  nether  lip  in 
a  grimace  that  was  almost  ugly.  Then:  "Come,"  she 
said  briskly.  "Supper  is  laid,  and  my  Lord  Seneschal 
will  be  awaiting  us." 

And  before  he  could  reply  she  had  swept  past  him 
and  taken  her  way  below.  He  followed  gloomily,  and 
in  gloom  sat  he  at  table,  never  heeding  the  reckless 


SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


gaiety  of  the  Seneschal  and  the  forced  mirth  of  the 
Marquise.  He  well  understood  the  sort  of  tacit  bar- 
gain that  his  mother  had  made  with  him.  She  had 
seen  her  advantage  in  his  loathing  of  the  proposed 
union  with  Tressan,  and  she  had  used  it  to  the  full. 
Either  he  must  compel  Valerie  to  wed  him  this  side  of 
Saturday  or  resign  himself  to  see  his  mother  —  his 
beautiful,  peerless  mother  —  married  to  this  skin  of 
lard  that  called  itself  a  man. 

Living,  he  had  never  entertained  for  his  father  a 
son's  respect,  nor,  dead,  did  he  now  reverence  his 
memory  as  becomes  a  son.  But  in  that  hour,  as  he  sat 
at  table,  facing  this  gross  wooer  of  his  mother's,  his 
eyes  were  raised  to  the  portrait  of  the  florid-visaged, 
haughty  Marquis  de  Condillac,  where  it  looked  down 
upon  them  from  the  panelled  wall,  and  from  his  soul 
he  offered  up  to  that  portrait  of  his  dead  sire  an 
apology  for  the  successor  whom  his  widow  destined 
him. 

He  ate  little,  but  drank  great  draughts,  as  men  will 
when  their  mood  is  sullen  and  dejected,  and  the  heat 
of  the  wine,  warming  his  veins  and  lifting  from  him 
some  of  the  gloom  that  had  settled  over  him,  lent  him 
anon  a  certain  recklessness  very  different  from  the 
manner  of  his  sober  moments. 

Chancing  suddenly  to  raise  his  eyes  from  the  cup 
into  which  he  had  been  gazing,  absorbed  as  gazes  a 
seer  into  his  crystal,  he  caught  on  the  Seneschal's  lips 
so  odious  a  smile,  in  the  man's  eyes  so  greedy,  hateful 
a  leer  as  he  bent  them  on  the  Marquise,  that  he  had 
much  ado  not  to  alter  the  expression  of  that  flabby 
face  by  hurling  at  it  the  cup  he  held. 

He  curbed  himself;  he  smiled  sardonically  upon  the 


THE  CONFERENCE 


203 


pair;  and  in  that  moment  he  swore  that  be  the  cost 
what  it  might,  he  would  frustrate  the  union  of  those 
two.  His  thoughts  flew  to  Valerie,  and  the  road  they 
took  was  fouled  with  the  mud  of  ugly  deeds.  A  de- 
spair, grim  at  first,  then  mocking,  took  possession  of 
him.  He  loved  Valerie  to  distraction.  Loved  her  for 
herself,  apart  from  all  worldly  advantages  that  must 
accrue  to  him  from  an  alliance  with  her.  His  mother 
saw  in  that  projected  marriage  no  more  than  the  ac- 
quisition of  the  lands  of  La  Vauvraye,  and  she  may 
even  have  thought  that  he  himself  saw  no  more.  In 
that  she  was  wrong;  but  because  of  it  she  may  have 
been  justified  of  her  impatience  with  him  at  the  tardi- 
ness, the  very  clumsiness  with  which  he  urged  his  suit. 
How  was  she  to  know  that  it  was  just  the  sincerity  of 
his  passion  made  him  clumsy?  For  like  many  another, 
normally  glib,  self-assured,  and  graceful,  Marius  grew 
halting,  shy,  and  clumsy  only  where  he  loved. 

But  in  the  despair  that  took  him  now  the  quality  of 
his  passion  seemed  to  change.  Partly  it  was  the  wine, 
partly  the  sight  of  this  other  lover  —  of  whom  there 
must  be  an  end  —  whose  very  glance  seemed  to  him 
an  insult  to  his  mother.  His  imagination  had  taken 
fire  that  night,  and  it  had  ripened  him  for  any  vil- 
lainy. The  Seneschal  and  the  wine,  between  them, 
had  opened  the  floodgates  of  all  that  was  evil  in  his 
nature,  and  that  evil  thundered  out  in  a  great  torrent 
that  bid  fair  to  sweep  all  before  it. 

And  suddenly,  unexpectedly  for  the  others,  who 
were  by  now  resigned  to  his  moody  silence,  the  evil 
found  expression.  The  Marquise  had  spoken  of 
something  —  something  of  slight  importance  —  that 
must  be  done  before  Florimond  returned.  Abruptly 


'204  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


Marius  swung  round  in  his  seat  to  face  his  mother. 

"Must  this  Florimond  return?"  he  asked,  and  for 
all  that  he  uttered  no  more  words,  so  ample  in  their 
expression  were  those  four  that  he  had  uttered  and  the 
tone  of  them,  that  his  meaning  left  little  work  to  the 
imagination. 

Madame  turned  to  stare  at  him,  surprise  ineffable 
in  her  glance  —  not  at  the  thing  that  he  suggested, 
but  at  the  abruptness  with  which  the  suggestion  came. 
The  cynical,  sneering  tone  rang  in  her  ears  after  the 
words  were  spoken,  and  she  looked  in  his  face  for  a 
confirmation  of  their  full  purport. 

She  observed  the  wine-flush  on  his  cheek,  the  wine- 
glitter  in  his  eye,  and  she  remarked  the  slight  smile  on 
his  lips  and  the  cynical  assumption  of  nonchalance 
with  which  he  fingered  the  jewel  in  his  ear  as  he  re- 
turned her  gaze.  She  beheld  now  in  her  son  a  man 
more  purposeful  than  she  had  ever  known  before. 

A  tense  silence  had  followed  his  words,  and  the 
Lord  Seneschal  gaped  at  him,  some  of  the  colour 
fading  from  his  plethoric  countenance,  suspecting  as 
he  did  the  true  drift  of  Marius's  suggestion.  At  last 
it  was  madame  who  spoke  —  very  softly,  with  a  nar- 
rowing of  the  eyes. 

"Call  Fortunio,"  was  all  she  said,  but  Marius  un- 
derstood full  well  the  purpose  for  which  she  would 
have  Fortunio  called. 

With  a  half-smile  he  rose,  and  going  to  the  door  he 
bade  his  page  who  was  idling  in  the  anteroom  go  sum- 
mon the  captain.  Then  he  paced  slowly  back,  not  to 
the  place  he  had  lately  occupied  at  table,  but  to  the 
hearth,  where  he  took  his  stand  with  his  shoulders 
squared  to  the  overmantel. 


THE  CONFERENCE 


205 


Fortunio  came,  fair-haired  and  fresh-complexioned 
as  a  babe,  his  supple,  not  ungraceful  figure  tawdrily- 
clad  in  showy  clothes  of  poor  material  the  worse  for 
hard  usage  and  spilt  wine.  The  Countess  bade  him 
sit,  and  with  her  own  hands  she  poured  a  cup  of 
Anjou  for  him. 

In  some  wonder,  and,  for  all  his  ordinary  self-pos- 
session, with  a  little  awkwardness,  the  captain  did  her 
bidding,  and  with  an  apologetic  air  he  took  the  seat 
she  offered  him. 

He  drank  this  wine,  and  here  was  a  spell  of  silence 
till  Marius,  grown  impatient,  brutally  put  the  thing 
for  which  the  Marquise  sought  delicate  words. 

"We  have  sent  for  you,  Fortunio,"  said  he,  in  a 
blustering  tone,  "  to  inquire  of  you  what  price  you'd 
ask  to  cut  the  throat  of  my  brother,  the  Marquis  de 
Condillac." 

The  Seneschal  sank  back  in  his  chair  with  a  gasp. 
The  captain,  a  frown  between  his  frank-seeming, 
wide-set  eyes,  started  round  to  look  at  the  boy.  The 
business  was  by  no  means  too  strong  for  the  ruffler's 
stomach,  but  the  words  in  which  it  was  conveyed  to 
him  most  emphatically  were. 

"Monsieur  de  Condillac/'  said  he,  with  an  odd  as- 
sumption of  dignity,  "I  think  you  have  mistaken 
your  man.  I  am  a  soldier,  not  a  cut-throat." 

"But  yes,"  the  Marquise  soothed  him,  throwing 
herself  instantly  into  the  breach,  and  laying  a  long, 
slender  hand  upon  the  frayed  green  velvet  of  the  cap- 
tain's sleeve.  "What  my  son  means  and  what  he  says 
are  vastly  different  things." 

"It  will  sorely  tax  your  wits,  madame,"  laughed 
Marius  brutally,  "to  make  clear  that  difference." 


2o6  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


And  then  the  Seneschal  nervously  cleared  his 
throat  and  muttering  that  it  waxed  late  and  he  must 
be  riding  home,  made  shift  to  rise.  Him,  too,  the  Mar- 
quise at  once  subdued.  She  was  not  minded  that  he 
should  go  just  yet.  It  might  be  useful  to  her  here- 
after to  have  had  him  present  at  this  conference,  into 
which  she  meant  to  draw  him  until  she  should  have 
made  him  one  with  them,  a  party  to  their  guilt.  For 
the  task  she  needed  not  over  many  words:  just  one  or 
two  and  a  melting  glance  or  so,  and  the  rebellion  in 
his  bosom  was  quelled  at  once. 

But  with  the  captain  her  wiles  were  not  so  readily 
successful.  He  had  no  hopes  of  winning  her  to  wife  — 
haply  no  desire,  since  he  was  not  a  man  of  very  great 
ambitions.  On  the  other  hand,  he  had  against  him 
the  very  worst  record  in  France,  and  for  all  that  he 
might  embark  upon  this  business  under  the  auspices 
of  the  Lord  Seneschal  himself,  he  knew  not  how  far 
the  Lord  Seneschal  might  dare  to  go  thereafter  to  save 
him  from  a  hanging,  should  it  come  to  that. 

He  said  as  much  in  words.  In  a  business  of  this 
kind,  he  knew  from  experience,  the  more  difficulties 
he  advanced,  the  better  a  bargain  he  drove  in  the  end; 
and  if  he  was  to  be  persuaded  to  risk  his  neck  in  this, 
he  should  want  good  payment.  But  even  for  good 
payment  on  this  occasion  he  was  none  too  sure  as  yet 
that  he  would  let  himself  be  persuaded. 

"Monsieur  Fortunio,"  the  Marquise  said,  very 
softly,  "heed  not  Monsieur  Marius's  words.  Attend 
to  me.  The  Marquis  de  Condillac,  as  no  doubt  you 
will  have  learned  for  yourself,  is  lying  at  La  Ro- 
chette.  Now  it  happens  that  he  is  noxious  to  us 
—  let  the  reasons  be  what  they  may.  We  need  a 


THE  CONFERENCE 


207 


friend  to  put  him  out  of  our  way.  Will  you  be  that 
friend?" 

"You  will  observe,"  sneered  Marius,  "how  wide  a 
difference  there  is  between  what  the  Marquise  sug- 
gests and  my  own  frank  question  of  what  price  you 
would  take  to  cut  my  brother's  throat." 

"I  observe  no  difference,  which  is  what  you  would 
say,"  Fortunio  answered  truculently,  his  head  well 
back,  his  brown  eyes  resentful  of  offence  —  for  none 
can  be  so  resentful  of  imputed  villainy  as  your  villain 
who  is  thoroughpaced.  "And,"  he  concluded,  "I  re- 
turn you  the  same  answer,  madame  —  that  I  am  no 
cut- throat." 

She  repressed  her  anger  at  Marius's  sneering  inter- 
ference, and  made  a  little  gesture  of  dismay  with  her 
eloquent  white  hands. 

"But  we  do  not  ask  you  to  cut  a  throat." 

"I  have  heard  amiss,  then,"  said  he,  his  insolence 
abating  nothing. 

"You  have  heard  aright,  but  you  have  understood 
amiss.  There  are  other  ways  of  doing  these  things.  If 
it  were  but  the  cutting  of  a  throat,  should  we  have 
sent  for  you  ?  There  are  a  dozen  in  the  garrison  would 
have  sufficed  for  our  purpose." 

"What  is  it,  then,  you  need?"  quoth  he. 

"We  want  an  affair  contrived  with  all  decency. 
The  Marquis  is  at  the  Sanglier  Noir  at  La  Rochette. 
You  can  have  no  difficulty  in  finding  him,  and  having 
found  him,  less  difficulty  still  in  giving  or  provoking 
insult." 

"Excellent,"  murmured  Marius  from  the  back- 
ground. "It  is  such  an  enterprise  as  should  please  a 
ready  swordsman  of  your  calibre,  Fortunio." 


2o8  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


"A  duel?"  quoth  the  fellow,  and  his  insolence  went 
out  of  him,  thrust  out  by  sheer  dismay;  his  mouth  fell 
open.  A  duel  was  another  affair  altogether.  "But, 
Sangdieu!  what  if  he  should  slay  me?  Have  you 
thought  of  that?" 

"Slay  you?"  cried  the  Marquise,  her  eyes  resting 
on  his  face  with  an  expression  as  of  wonder  at  such  a 
question.  "You  jest,  Fortunio." 

"And  he  with  the  fever,"  put  in  Marius,  sneer- 

"Ah!"  muttered  Fortunio.  "He  has  the  fever? 
The  fever  is  something.  But  —  but  —  accidents  will 
happen." 

"Florimond  was  ever  an  indifferent  swordsman," 
murmured  Marius  dreamily,  as  if  communing  with 
himself. 

The  captain  wheeled  upon  him  once  more. 

"Why,  then,  Monsieur  Marius,"  said  he,  "since 
that  is  so  and  you  are  skilled  —  as  skilled  as  am  I,  or 
more  —  and  he  has  a  fever,  where  is  the  need  to  hire 
me  to  the  task?" 

"Where?"  echoed  Marius.  "What  affair  may  that 
be  of  yours?  We  ask  you  to  name  a  price  on  which 
you  will  do  this  thing.  Have  done  with  counter- 
questions." 

Marius  was  skilled  with  the  foils,  as  Fortunio  said, 
but  he  cared  not  for  unbaited  steel,  and  he  was 
conscious  of  it,  so  that  the  captain's  half-sneer  had 
touched  him  on  the  raw.  But  he  was  foolish  to  take 
that  tone  in  answer.  There  was  a  truculent,  South- 
ern pride  in  the  ruffler  which  sprang  immediately  into 
life  and  which  naught  that  they  could  say  thereafter 
would  stamp  out. 


THE  CONFERENCE 


209 


"Must  I  say  again  that  you  mistake  your  man?" 
was  his  retort,  and  as  he  spoke  he  rose,  as  though  to 
signify  that  the  subject  wearied  him  and  that  his  re- 
maining to  pursue  it  must  be  idle.  "  I  am  not  of  those 
to  whom  you  can  say:  'I  need  such  an  one  killed, 
name  me  the  price  at  which  you'll  be  his  butcher.'" 

The  Marquise  wrung  her  hands  in  pretty  mimicry 
of  despair,  and  poured  out  soothing  words,  as  one 
might  pour  oil  upon  stormy  waters.  The  Seneschal 
sat  in  stolid  silence,  a  half-scared  spectator  of  this  odd 
scene,  what  time  the  Marquise  talked  and  talked  until 
she  had  brought  Fortunio  back  to  some  measure  of 
subjection. 

Such  reasoning  as  she  made  use  of  she  climaxed  by 
an  offer  of  no  less  a  sum  than  a  hundred  pistoles.  The 
captain  licked  his  lips  and  pulled  at  his  mustachios. 
For  all  his  vaunted  scorn  of  being  a  butcher  at  a  price, 
now  that  he  heard  the  price  he  seemed  not  half  so 
scornful. 

"Tell  me  again  the  thing  that  you  need  doing  and 
the  manner  of  it,"  said  he,  as  one  who  was  moved  to 
reconsider.  She  told  him,  and  when  she  had  done  he 
made  a  compromise. 

"If  I  go  upon  this  business,  madame,  I  go  not 
alone." 

"Oh,  as  for  that,"  said  Marius,  "it  shall  be  as  you 
will.  Take  what  men  you  want  with  you." 

"And  hang  with  them  afterwards,  maybe,"  he 
sneered,  his  insolence  returning.  "The  hundred 
pistoles  would  avail  me  little  then.  Look  you,  Mon- 
sieur de  Condillac,  and  you,  madame,  if  I  go,  I'll  need 
to  take  with  me  a  better  hostage  than  the  whole 
garrison  of  this  place.  I'll  need  for  shield  some  one 


2io  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


who  will  see  to  it  that  he  is  not  hurt  himself,  just  as  I 
shall  see  to  it  that  he  is  hurt  before  I  am." 

"What  do  you  mean?  Speak  out,  Fortunio,"  the 
Marquise  bade  him. 

"I  mean,  madame,  that  I  will  go,  not  to  do  this 
thing,  but  to  stand  by  and  render  help  if  help  be 
needed.  Let  Monsieur  de  Condillac  go,  and  I  will  go 
with  him,  and  I  will  undertake  to  see  to  it  that  he  re- 
turns unhurt  and  that  we  leave  the  other  stark." 

Both  started,  and  the  Seneschal  leaned  heavily 
upon  the  table.  He  was  not,  with  all  his  faults,  a  man 
of  blood,  and  this  talk  of  butchery  turned  him  sick  and 
faint. 

Vainly  now  did  the  Marquise  seek  to  alter  the  cap- 
tain's resolution;  but  in  this  she  received  a  sudden 
check  from  Marius  himself.  He  cut  in  upon  her  argu- 
ments to  ask  the  captain: 

"How  can  you  promise  so  much  ?  Do  you  mean  that 
you  and  I  must  fall  upon  him  ?  You  forget  that  he  will 
have  men  about  him.  A  duel  is  one  thing,  a  rough- 
and-tumble  another,  and  we  shall  fare  none  so  well  in 
this,  I'm  thinking." 

The  captain  closed  one  eye,  and  a  leer  of  subtle 
cunning  overspread  his  face. 

"I've  thought  of  that,"  said  he.  "Neither  a  duel 
nor  a  rough-and-tumble  do  I  propose,  but  something 
between  the  two;  something  that  shall  seem  a  duel 
yet  be  a  rough-and-tumble." 

"Explain  yourself." 

"What  further  explanation  does  it  ask?  We  come 
upon  Monsieur  le  Marquis  where  his  men  are  not. 
We  penetrate,  let  us  say,  into  his  chamber.  I  turn  the 
key  in  the  door.  We  are  alone  with  him  and  you 


THE  CONFERENCE 


211 


provoke  him.  He  is  angry,  and  must  fight  you  there 
and  then.  I  am  your  friend;  I  must  fill  the  office  of 
second  for  both  sides.  You  engage,  and  I  stand  aside 
and  let  you  fight  it  out.  You  say  he  is  indifferently 
skilled  with  the  sword,  and,  in  addition,  that  he  has  a 
fever.  Thus  you  should  contrive  to  put  your  steel 
through  him,  and  a  duel  it  will  have  been.  But  if  by 
luck  or  skill  he  should  have  you  in  danger,  I  shall  be 
at  hand  to  flick  in  my  sword  at  the  right  moment  and 
make  an  opening  through  which  you  may  send  yours 
home." 

"Believe  me  it  were  better  — "  began  the  Dowager. 
But  Marius,  who  of  a  sudden  was  much  taken  with 
the  notion,  again  broke  in. 

"Are  you  to  be  depended  upon  to  make  no  mistake, 
Fortunio?" 

"Per  Bacco!"  swore  the  ruffler.  "A  mistake  must 
cost  me  a  hundred  pistoles.  I  think  you  may  depend 
upon  me  there.  If  I  err  at  all,  it  will  be  on  the  side  of 
eagerness  to  see  you  make  short  work  of  him.  You 
have  my  answer  now,  monsieur.  If  we  talk  all  night, 
you  shall  not  move  me  further.  But  if  my  proposal 
suits  you,  I  am  your  man." 

"And  I  yours,  Fortunio,"  answered  Marius,  and 
there  was  a  ring  almost  of  exultation  in  his  voice. 

The  Dowager  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  as  if  she 
were  weighing  the  men  and  satisfying  herself  that 
Marius  ran  no  risk.  She  put  a  question  or  two  to  her 
son,  another  to  the  captain;  then,  seeming  satisfied 
with  what  had  been  agreed,  she  nodded  her  head  and 
told  them  they  had  best  be  stirring  with  the  dawn. 

"You  will  have  light  enough  by  half-past  six.  Do 
not  delay  later  in  taking  the  road.  And  see  that  you 


212  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


are  back  here  by  nightfall;  I  shall  be  anxious  till  you 
are  returned." 

She  poured  wine  again  for  the  captain,  and  Marius 
coming  up  to  the  table  filled  himself  a  glass,  which  he 
tossed  off.  The  Marquise  was  speaking  to  Tressan. 

"Will  you  not  drink  to  the  success  of  the  venture?" 
she  asked  him,  in  a  coaxing  tone,  her  eyes  upon  his 
own.  "I  think  we  are  like  to  see  the  end  of  our 
troubles  now,  monsieur,  and  Marius  shall  be  lord  both 
of  Condillac  and  La  Vauvraye." 

And  the  gross,  foolish  Seneschal,  under  the  spell  of 
her  magnificent  eyes,  slowly  raised  his  cup  to  his  lips 
and  drank  to  the  success  of  that  murderous  business. 
Marius  stood  still,  a  frown  between  his  eyes  haled 
thither  by  the  mention  of  La  Vauvraye.  He  might  be 
winning  it,  as  his  mother  said,  but  he  would  have  pre- 
ferred to  have  won  it  differently.  Then  the  frown  was 
smoothed  away;  a  sardonic  smile  replaced  it;  another 
cup  of  wine  he  poured  himself.  Then,  without  word  to 
any  there,  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  went  from  the 
room,  a  trifle  unsteady  in  his  gait,  yet  with  such  lines 
of  purposefulness  in  the  way  he  bore  himself  that  the 
three  of  them  stared  after  him  in  dull  surprise. 


CHAPTER  XVI 


THE  UNEXPECTED 

IN  her  apartments  in  the  Northern  Tower  Valerie 
had  supped,  and  —  to  spare  Monsieur  de  Gar- 
nache  the  full  indignity  of  that  part  of  the  offices  he 
was  charged  with  —  she  had  herself  removed  the  cloth 
and  set  the  things  in  the  guard-room,  where  they  might 
lie  till  morning.  When  that  was  done  —  and  despite 
her  protests,  Garnache  had  insisted  upon  lending  a 
hand  —  the  Parisian  reminded  her  that  it  was  already 
after  nine,  and  urged  her  to  make  such  preparations  as 
incumbed  her  for  their  journey. 

"  My  preparations  are  soon  made,"  she  assured  him 
with  a  smile.  "I  need  but  what  I  may  carry  in  a 
cloak." 

They  fell  to  talking  of  their  impending  flight,  and 
they  laughed  together  at  the  discomfiture  that  would 
be  the  Dowager's  and  her  son's  when,  in  the  morning, 
they  came  to  discover  the  empty  cage.  From  that 
they  passed  on  to  talk  of  Valerie  herself,  of  her  earlier 
life  at  La  Vauvraye,  and  later  the  conversation  shifted 
to  Garnache,  and  she  questioned  him  touching  the 
warring  he  had  seen  in  early  youth,  and  afterwards 
asked  him  for  particulars  of  Paris  —  that  wonderful 
city  which  to  her  mind  was  the  only  earthly  parallel  of 
Paradise  —  and  of  the  life  at  Court. 

Thus  in  intimate  talk  did  they  while  away  the 
time  of  waiting,  and  in  the  hour  that  sped  they  came, 
perhaps,  to  know  more  of  each  other  than  they  had 
done  hitherto.   Intimate,  indeed,  had  they  uncon- 


2i4  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


sciously  become  already.  Their  singular  position, 
locked  together  in  that  tower  —  a  position  utterly  im- 
possible under  any  but  the  conditions  that  attended  it 
—  had  conduced  to  that  good-fellowship,  whilst  the 
girl's  trust  and  dependence  upon  the  man,  the  man's 
observance  of  that  trust,  and  his  determination  to 
show  her  that  it  had  not  been  misplaced,  had  done 
the  rest. 

But  to-night  they  seemed  to  have  drawn  nearer  in 
spirit  to  each  other,  and  that,  maybe,  it  was  that 
prompted  Valerie  to  sigh,  and  in  her  sweet,  unthink- 
ing innocence  to  say  again: 

"I  am  truly  sorry,  Monsieur  de  Garnache,  that  our 
sojourn  here  is  coming  to  an  end." 

He  was  no  coxcomb,  and  he  set  no  false  value  on  the 
words.  He  laughed  for  answer,  as  he  rejoined: 

"Not  so  am  I,  mademoiselle.  Nor  shall  I  know 
peace  of  mind  again  until  this  ill-omened  chateau  is  a 
good  three  leagues  or  so  behind  us.  Sh!  What  was 
that?" 

He  came  instantly  to  his  feet,  his  face  intent  and 
serious.  He  had  been  sitting  at  his  ease  in  an  arm- 
chair, over  the  back  of  which  he  had  tossed  the  baldric 
from  which  his  sword  depended.  The  clang  of  the 
heavy  door  below,  striking  the  wall  as  it  was  pushed 
open,  had  reached  his  ears. 

"Can  it  be  time  already?"  asked  mademoiselle; 
yet  a  panic  took  her,  and  she  blenched  a  little. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Impossible,"  said  he;  "it  is  not  more  than  ten 
o'clock.  Unless  that  fool  Arsenio  has  blundered — " 
He  stopped.  "Sh!"  he  whispered.  "Some  one  is 
coming  here." 


THE  UNEXPECTED 


And  suddenly  he  realized  the  peril  that  might  lie  in 
being  found  thus  in  her  company.  It  alarmed  him 
more  than  did  the  visit  itself,  so  unusual  at  this  hour. 
He  saw  that  he  had  not  time  to  reach  the  guard-room; 
he  would  be  caught  in  the  act  of  coming  forth,  and 
that  might  be  interpreted  by  the  Dowager  or  her  son 

—  if  it  should  happen  to  be  one  or  the  other  of  them 

—  as  a  hurried  act  of  flight  such  as  guilt  might 
prompt.  Perhaps  he  exaggerated  the  risk;  but  their 
fortunes  at  Condillac  had  reached  a  point  where  they 
must  not  be  jeopardized  by  any  chance  however 
slight. 

"To  your  chamber,  mademoiselle,"  he  whispered 
fearfully,  and  he  pointed  to  the  door  of  the  inner 
room.  "Lock  yourself  in.  Quick!  Sh!"  And  he 
signed  frantically  to  her  to  go  silently. 

Swift  and  quietly  as  a  mouse  she  glided  from  the 
room  and  softly  closed  the  door  of  her  chamber  and 
turned  the  key  in  a  lock,  which  Garnache  had  had  the 
foresight  to  keep  well  oiled.  He  breathed  more  freely 
when  it  was  done. 

A  step  sounded  in  the  guard-room.  He  sank  without 
a  rustle  into  the  chair  from  which  he  had  risen,  rested 
his  head  against  the  back  of  it,  closed  his  eyes,  opened 
his  mouth,  and  dissembled  sleep. 

The  steps  came  swiftly  across  the  guard-room 
floor,  soft,  as  of  one  lightly  shod;  and  Garnache 
wondered  was  it  the  mother  or  the  son,  just  as  he 
wondered  what  this  ill-come  visitor  might  be  seeking. 

The  door  of  the  antechamber  was  pushed  gently 
open  —  it  had  stood  ajar  —  and  under  the  lintel 
appeared  the  slender  figure  of  Marius,  still  in  his 
brown  velvet  suit  as  Garnache  last  had  seen  him.  He 


2i6  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


paused  a  moment  to  peer  into  the  chamber.  Then  he 
stepped  forward,  frowning  to  behold  "Battista"  so 
cosily  ensconced. 

"Old  there!"  he  cried,  and  kicked  the  sentry's  out- 
stretched legs,  the  more  speedily  to  wake  him.  "Is 
this  the  watch  you  keep?" 

Garnache  opened  his  eyes  and  stared  a  second 
dully  at  the  disturber  of  his  feigned  slumbers.  Then, 
as  if  being  more  fully  awakened  he  recognized  his 
master,  he  heaved  himself  suddenly  to  his  feet  and 
bowed. 

"Is  this  the  watch  you  keep?"  quoth  Marius  again, 
and  Garnache,  scanning  the  youth's  face  with  fool- 
ishly smiling  eyes,  noted  the  flush  on  his  cheek,  the 
odd  glitter  in  his  handsome  eyes,  and  even  caught  a 
whiff  of  wine  upon  his  breath.  Alarm  grew  in  Gar- 
nache's  mind,  but  his  face  maintained  its  foolish 
vacancy,  its  inane  smile.  He  bowed  again  and,  with  a 
wave  of  the  hands  towards  the  inner  chamber, 

"La  damigella  e  la"  said  he. 

For  all  that  Marius  had  no  Italian  he  understood 
the  drift  of  the  words,  assisted  as  they  were  by  the 
man's  expressive  gesture.  He  sneered  cruelly. 

"  It  would  be  an  ugly  thing  for  you,  my  ugly  friend, 
if  she  were  not,"  he  answered.  "Away  with  you.  I 
shall  call  you  when  I  need  you."  And  he  pointed  to 
the  door. 

Garnache  experienced  some  dismay,  some  fear 
even.  He  plied  his  wits,  and  he  determined  that  he 
had  best  seem  to  apprehend  from  his  gestures  Ma- 
rius's  meaning;  but  apprehend  it  in  part  only,  and 
go  no  further  than  the  other  side  of  that  door. 

He  bowed,  therefore,  for  the  third  time,  and  with 


THE  UNEXPECTED 


217 


another  of  his  foolish  grins  he  shuffled  out  of  the 
chamber,  pulling  the  door  after  him,  so  that  Marius 
should  not  see  how  near  at  hand  he  stayed. 

Marius,  without  further  heeding  him,  stepped  to 
mademoiselle's  door  and  rapped  on  a  panel  with  brisk 
knuckles. 

"Who  is  there?"  she  inquired  from  within. 

"It  is  I  —  Marius.  Open,  I  have  something  I  must 
say  to  you." 

"Will  it  not  keep  till  morning?" 

"  I  shall  be  gone  by  then,"  he  answered  impatiently, 
"and  much  depends  upon  my  seeing  you  ere  I  go.  So 
open.  Come!" 

There  followed  a  pause,  and  Garnache  in  the  outer 
room  set  his  teeth  and  prayed  she  might  not  anger 
Marius.  He  must  be  handled  skilfully,  lest  their  flight 
should  be  frustrated  at  the  last  moment.  He  prayed, 
too,  that  there  might  be  no  need  for  his  intervention. 
That  would  indeed  be  the  end  of  all  —  a  shipwreck 
within  sight  of  harbour.  He  promised  himself  that  he 
would  not  lightly  intervene.  For  the  rest  this  news  of 
Marius's  intended  departure  filled  him  with  a  desire 
to  know  something  of  the  journey  on  which  he  was 
bound. 

Slowly  mademoiselle's  door  opened.  White  and 
timid  she  appeared. 

"What  do  you  want,  Marius?" 

"Now  and  always  and  above  all  things  the  sight 
of  you,  Valerie,"  said  he,  and  the  flushed  cheek,  the 
glittering  eye,  and  wine-laden  breath  were  as  plain  to 
her  as  they  had  been  to  Garnache,  and  they  filled  her 
with  a  deeper  terror.  Nevertheless  she  came  forth  at 
his  bidding. 


218  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


"I  see  that  you  were  not  yet  abed,"  said  he.  "It  is 
as  well.  We  must  have  a  talk."  He  set  a  chair  for  her 
and  begged  her  to  be  seated;  then  he  perched  himself 
on  the  table,  his  hands  gripping  the  edges  of  it  on 
either  side  of  him,  and  he  turned  his  eyes  upon  her. 

"Valerie,"  he  said  slowly,  "the  Marquis  de  Con- 
dillac,  my  brother,  is  at  La  Rochette." 

"  He  is  coming  home ! "  she  cried,  clasping  her  hands 
and  feigning  surprise  in  word  and  glance. 

Marius  shook  his  head  and  smiled  grimly. 

"No,"  said  he.  "He  is  not  coming  home.  That  is 
—  not  unless  you  wish  it." 

"Not  unless  I  wish  it?  But  naturally  I  wish  it!" 

"Then,  Valerie,  if  you  would  have  what  you  wish, 
so  must  I.  If  Florimond  is  ever  to  come  to  Condillac 
again,  you  must  be  my  wife." 

He  leaned  towards  her  now,  supported  by  his  elbow, 
so  that  his  face  was  close  to  hers,  a  deeper  flush  upon 
it,  a  brighter  glitter  in  his  black  eyes,  his  vinous 
breath  enveloping  and  suffocating  her.  She  shrank 
back,  her  hands  locking  themselves  one  in  the  other 
till  the  knuckles  showed  white. 

"What  —  what  is  it  you  mean?"  she  faltered. 

"No  more  than  I  have  said;  no  less.  If  you  love 
him  well  enough  to  sacrifice  yourself,"  and  his  lips 
curled  sardonically  at  the  word,  "  then  marry  me  and 
save  him  from  his  doom." 

"What  doom?"  Her  voice  came  mechanically,  her 
lips  seeming  scarce  to  move. 

He  swung  down  from  the  table  and  stood  before 
her. 

"I  will  tell  you,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  very  full  of 
promise.  "  I  love  you,  Valerie,  above  all  else  on  earth 


THE  UNEXPECTED 


219 


or,  I  think,  in  heaven;  and  I'll  not  yield  you  to  him. 
Say  'No'  to  me  now,  and  at  daybreak  I  start  for  La 
Rochette  to  win  you  from  him  at  point  of  sword." 

Despite  her  fears  she  could  not  repress  a  little  smile 
of  scorn. 

"  Is  that  all  ? "  said  she.  "Why,  if  you  are  so  rash,  it 
is  yourself,  assuredly,  will  be  slain." 

He  smiled  tranquilly  at  that  reflection  upon  his 
courage  and  his  skill. 

"So  might  it  befall  if  I  went  alone,"  said  he.  She 
understood.  Her  eyes  dilated  with  horror,  with 
loathing  of  him.  The  angry  words  that  sprang  to  her 
lips  were  not  to  be  denied. 

"You  cur,  you  cowardly  assassin!"  she  blazed  at 
him.  "I  might  have  guessed  that  in  some  such  cut- 
throat manner  would  your  vaunt  of  winning  me  at 
the  sword-point  be  accomplished." 

She  watched  the  colour  fade  from  his  cheeks,  and  the 
ugly,  livid  hue  that  spread  in  its  room  to  his  very  lips. 
Yet  it  did  not  daunt  her.  She  was  on  her  feet,  con- 
fronting him  ere  he  had  time  to  speak  again.  Her  eyes 
flashed,  and  her  arm  pointed  quivering  to  the  door. 

"Go!"  she  bade  him,  her  voice  harsh  for  once. 
"Out  of  my  sight!  Go!  Do  your  worst,  so  that  you 
leave  me.  I'll  hold  no  traffic  with  you." 

"Will  you  not?"  said  he,  through  setting  teeth,  and 
suddenly  he  caught  the  wrist  of  that  outstretched 
arm.  But  she  saw  nothing  of  immediate  danger.  The 
only  danger  that  she  knew  was  the  danger  that 
threatened  Florimond,  and  little  did  that  matter  since 
at  midnight  she  was  to  leave  Condillac  to  reach  La 
Rochette  in  time  to  warn  her  betrothed.  The  know- 
ledge gave  her  confidence  and  an  added  courage. 


22o  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


"You  have  offered  me  your  bargain,"  she  told  him. 
"You  have  named  your  price  and  you  have  heard  my 
refusal.  Now  go." 

"Not  yet  awhile,"  said  he,  in  a  voice  so  odiously 
sweet  that  Garnache  caught  his  breath. 

He  drew  her  towards  him.  Despite  her  wild  struggles 
he  held  her  fast  against  his  breast.  Do  what  she 
would,  he  rained  his  hot  kisses  on  her  face  and  hair, 
till  at  last,  freeing  a  hand,  she  smote  him  with  all  her 
might  across  the  face. 

He  let  her  go  then.  He  fell  back  with  an  oath,  a 
patch  of  fingermarks  showing  red  on  his  white  coun- 
tenance. 

"That  blow  has  killed  Florimond  de  Condillac," 
he  told  her  viciously.  "He  dies  at  noon  to-morrow. 
Ponder  it,  my  pretty." 

"I  care  not  what  you  do  so  that  you  leave  me,"  she 
answered  defiantly,  restraining  by  a  brave  effort  the 
tears  of  angry  distress  that  welled  up  from  her  stricken 
heart.  And  no  less  stricken,  no  less  angry  was  Gar- 
nache where  he  listened.  It  was  by  an  effort  that  he 
had  restrained  himself  from  bursting  in  upon  them 
when  Marius  had  seized  her.  The  reflection  that  were 
he  to  do  so  all  would  irretrievably  be  ruined  alone  had 
stayed  him. 

Marius  eyed  the  girl  a  moment,  his  face  distorted  by 
the  rage  that  was  in  him. 

"By  God!"  he  swore,  "if  I  cannot  have  your  love, 
I'll  give  you  cause  enough  to  hate  me." 

"Already  have  you  done  that  most  thoroughly," 
said  she.  And  Garnache  cursed  this  pertness  of  hers 
which  was  serving  to  dare  him  on. 

The  next  moment  there  broke  from  her  a  startled 


THE  UNEXPECTED 


221 


cry.  Marius  had  seized  her  again  and  was  crushing 
her  frail  body  in  his  arms. 

"I  shall  kiss  your  lips  before  I  go,  ma  mie,"  said  he, 
his  voice  thick  now  with  a  passion  that  was  not  all  of 
anger.  And  then,  while  he  still  struggled  to  have  his 
way  with  her,  a  pair  of  arms  took  him  about  the  waist 
like  hoops  of  steel. 

In  his  surprise  he  let  her  free,  and  in  that  moment 
he  was  swung  back  and  round  and  cast  a  good  six 
paces  down  the  room. 

He  came  to  a  standstill  by  the  table,  at  which  he 
clutched  to  save  himself  from  falling,  and  turned  be- 
wildered, furious  eyes  upon  "Battista,"  by  whom  he 
now  dimly  realized  that  he  had  been  assailed. 

Garnache's  senses  had  all  left  him  in  that  moment 
when  Valerie  had  cried  out.  He  cast  discretion  to  the 
winds;  reason  went  out  of  him,  and  only  blind  anger 
remained  to  drive  him  into  immediate  action.  And  as 
suddenly  as  that  flood  of  rage  had  neaped,  as  suddenly 
did  it  ebb  now  that  he  found  himself  face  to  face  with 
the  outraged  Condillac  and  began  to  understand  the 
magnitude  of  the  folly  he  had  committed. 

Everything  was  lost  now,  utterly  and  irretrievably 
—  lost  as  a  dozen  other  fine  emprises  had  been  by  his 
sudden  and  ungoverned  frenzy.  God!  What  a  fool 
he  was!  What  a  cursed,  drivelling  fool!  What,  after 
all,  was  a  kiss  or  two,  compared  with  all  the  evil  that 
might  now  result  from  his  interference?  Haply 
Marius  would  have  taken  them  and  departed,  and  at 
midnight  they  would  have  been  free  to  go  from  Con- 
dillac. 

The  future  would  not  have  been  lacking  in  oppor- 
tunities to  seek  out  and  kill  Marius  for  that  insult. 


222  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


Why  could  he  not  have  left  the  matter  to  the  future? 
But  now,  with  Florimond  to  be  murdered  on  the 
morrow  at  La  Rochette,  himself  likely  to  be  murdered 
within  the  hour  at  Condillac,  Valerie  was  at  their 
mercy  utterly. 

Wildly  and  vainly  did  he  strive  even  then  to  cover 
up  the  foolish  thing  that  he  had  done.  He  bowed 
apologetically  to  Marius;  he  waved  his  hands  and 
filled  the  air  with  Italian  phrases,  frenziedly  uttered, 
as  if  by  the  very  vigour  of  them  he  sought  to  drive 
explanation  into  his  master's  brain.  Marius  watched 
and  listened,  but  his  rage  nowise  abated;  it  grew, 
instead,  as  if  that  farrago  of  a  language  he  did  not 
understand  were  but  an  added  insult.  An  oath  was 
all  he  uttered.  Then  he  swung  round  and  caught 
Garnache's  sword  from  the  chair  beside  him,  where  it 
still  rested,  and  Garnache  in  that  moment  cursed  the 
oversight.  Whipping  the  long,  keen  blade  from  its 
sheath,  Marius  bore  down  upon  the  rash  meddler. 

"Par  Dieu!"  he  swore  between  his  teeth.  "We'll 
see  the  colour  of  your  dirty  blood,  you  that  lay  hands 
upon  a  gentleman." 

But  before  he  could  send  home  the  weapon,  before 
Garnache  could  move  to  defend  himself,  Valerie  had 
slipped  between  them.  Marius  looked  into  her  white, 
determined  face,  and  was  smitten  with  surprise. 
What  was  this  hind  to  her  that  she  should  interfere  at 
the  risk  of  taking  the  sword  herself? 

Then  a  slow  smile  spread  upon  his  face.  He  was 
smarting  still  under  her  disdain  and  resistance,  as  well 
as  under  a  certain  sense  of  the  discomfiture  this  fellow 
had  put  upon  him.  He  saw  a  way  to  hurt  her,  to  abase 
her  pride,  and  cut  her  to  the  very  soul  with  shame. 


THE  UNEXPECTED 


223 


"You  are  singularly  concerned  in  this  man's  life," 
said  he,  an  odious  undercurrent  of  meaning  in  his 
voice. 

"I  would  not  have  you  murder  him,"  she  answered, 
"for  doing  no  more  than  madame  your  mother  bade 
him." 

"I  make  no  doubt  he  has  proved  a  very  excellent 
guard,"  he  sneered. 

Even  now  all  might  have  been  well.  With  that 
insult  Marius  might  consider  that  he  had  taken  pay- 
ment for  the  discomfiture  he  had  suffered.  He  might 
have  bethought  him  that,  perhaps,  as  she  said,  "Bat- 
tista"  had  done  no  more  than  observe  the  orders  he 
had  received  —  a  trifle  excessively,  maybe,  yet  faith- 
fully nevertheless.  Thinking  thus,  he  might  even  have 
been  content  to  go  his  ways  and  take  his  fill  of 
vengeance  by  slaying  Florimond  upon  the  morrow. 
But  Garnache's  rash  temper,  rising  anew,  tore  that 
last  flimsy  chance  to  shreds. 

The  insult  that  mademoiselle  might  overlook  — 
might  even  not  have  fully  understood  —  set  him  afire 
with  indignation  for  her  sake.  He  forgot  his  role,  for- 
got even  that  he  had  no  French. 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  cried,  and  she  gasped  in  her 
affright  at  this  ruinous  indiscretion,  "I  beg  that  you 
will  stand  aside."  His  voice  was  low  and  threatening, 
but  his  words  were  woefully  distinct. 

"Par  la  mort  Dieu!"  swore  Marius,  taken  utterly 
aback.  "What  may  your  name  be  —  you  who  hither- 
to have  had  no  French?" 

Almost  thrusting  mademoiselle  aside,  Garnache 
stood  out  to  face  him,  the  flush  of  hot  anger  showing 
through  the  dye  on  his  cheeks. 


SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


"My  name,"  said  he,  "is  Martin  Marie  Rigobert  de 
Garnache,  and  my  business  now  to  make  an  end  of  one 
at  least  of  this  obscene  brood  of  Condillac." 

And,  without  more  ado,  he  caught  up  a  chair  and 
held  it  before  him  in  readiness  to  receive  the  other's 
onslaught. 

But  Marius  hung  back  an  instant  —  at  first  in 
sheer  surprise,  later  in  fear.  He  had  some  knowledge 
of  the  fellow's  methods.  Even  the  sword  he  wielded 
gave  him  little  confidence  opposed  to  Garnache  with  a 
chair.  He  must  have  help.  His  eyes  sought  the  door, 
measuring  the  distance.  Ere  he  could  reach  it  Gar- 
nache would  cut  him  off.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but 
to  attempt  to  drive  the  Parisian  back.  And  so  with  a 
sudden  rush  he  advanced  to  the  attack.  Garnache  fell 
back  and  raised  his  chair,  and  in  that  instant  made- 
moiselle once  more  intervened  between  them. 

"Stand  aside,  mademoiselle,"  cried  Garnache,  who 
now,  grown  cool,  as  was  his  way  when  once  he  was 
engaged,  saw  clearly  through  the  purpose  formed  by 
Marius.  "Stand  aside,  or  we  shall  have  him  giving 
the  alarm." 

He  leapt  clear  of  her  to  stop  Marius's  sudden  rush 
for  the  door.  On  the  very  threshold  the  young  man 
was  forced  to  turn  and  defend  himself,  lest  his  brains 
be  dashed  out  by  that  ponderous  weapon  Garnache 
was  handling  with  a  rare  facrlity.  But  the  mischief 
was  done,  in  that  he  had  reached  the  threshold.  Back- 
ing, he  defended  himself  and  gained  the  anteroom. 
Garnache  followed,  but  the  clumsy  chair  was  defensive 
rather  than  offensive,  and  Marius's  sword  meanwhile 
darted  above  it  and  below  it,  forcing  him  to  keep  a 
certain  distance. 


THE  UNEXPECTED 


225 


And  now  Marius  raised  his  voice  and  shouted  with 
all  the  power  of  his  lungs: 

"To  me!  To  me!  Fortunio!  Abdon!  To  me,  you 
dogs!  I  am  beset." 

From  the  courtyard  below  rose  an  echo  of  his  words, 
repeated  in  a  shout  by  the  sentinel,  who  had  over- 
heard them,  and  they  caught  the  swift  fall  of  the 
fellow's  feet  as  he  ran  for  help.  Furious,  picturing  to 
himself  how  the  alarm  would  spread  like  a  conflagra- 
tion through  the  chateau,  cursing  his  headstrong  folly 
yet  determined  that  Marius  at  least  should  not  escape 
him,  Garnache  put  forth  his  energies  to  hinder  him 
from  gaining  the  door  that  opened  on  to  the  stairs. 
From  the  doorway  of  the  antechamber  mademoiselle, 
with  a  white  face  and  terrified  eyes,  watched  the  un- 
equal combat  and  heard  the  shouts  for  help.  Anon 
despair  might  whelm  her  at  the  thought  of  how  they 
had  lost  their  opportunity  of  escaping;  but  for  the 
present  she  had  no  thought  save  for  the  life  of  that 
brave  man  who  was  defending  himself  with  an  un- 
wieldy chair. 

Garnache  leapt  suddenly  aside  to  take  his  opponent 
in  the  flank  and  thus  turn  him  from  his  backward 
progress  towards  the  outer  door.  The  manoeuvre  suc- 
ceeded, and  gradually,  always  defending  himself, 
Garnache  circled  farther  round  him  until  he  was 
between  Marius  and  the  threshold. 

And  now  there  came  a  sound  of  running  feet  on  the 
uneven  stones  of  the  courtyard.  Light  gleamed  on  the 
staircase,  and  breathless  voices  were  wafted  up  to  the 
two  men.  Garnache  bethought  him  that  his  last  hour 
was  assuredly  at  hand.  Well,  if  he  must  take  his 
death,  he  might  as  well  take  it  here  upon  Marius's 


226  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


sword  as  upon  another's.  So  he  would  risk  it  for  the 
sake  of  leaving  upon  Marius  some  token  by  which  he 
might  remember  him.  He  swung  his  chair  aloft,  un- 
covering himself  for  a  second.  The  young  man's 
sword  darted  in  like  a  shaft  of  light.  Nimbly  Gar- 
nache  stepped  aside  to  avoid  it,  and  moved  nearer  his 
opponent.  Down  crashed  the  chair,  and  down  went 
Marius,  stunned  and  bleeding,  under  its  terrific  blow. 
The  sword  clattered  from  his  hand  and  rolled,  with  a 
pendulum-like  movement,  to  the  feet  of  Garnache. 

The  Parisian  flung  aside  his  chair  and  stooped  to 
seize  that  very  welcome  blade.  He  rose,  grasping  the 
hilt  and  gathering  confidence  from  the  touch  of  that 
excellently  balanced  weapon,  and  he  swung  round 
even  as  Fortunio  and  two  of  his  braves  appeared  in 
the  doorway. 


CHAPTER  XVII 


HOW  MONSIEUR  DE  GARNACHE  LEFT  CONDILLAC 

NEVER  was  there  a  man  with  a  better  stomach 
for  a  fight  than  Martin  de  Garnache,  nor  did  he 
stop  to  consider  that  here  his  appetite  in  that  direc- 
tion was  likely  to  be  indulged  to  a  surfeit.  The  sight 
of  those  three  men  opposing  him,  swords  drawn  and 
Fortunio  armed  in  addition  with  a  dagger,  drove  from 
his  mind  every  other  thought,  every  other  considera- 
tion but  that  of  the  impending  battle. 

He  fell  on  guard  to  receive  their  onslaught,  his  eyes 
alert,  his  lips  tight  set,  his  knees  like  springs  of  steel, 
slightly  flexed  to  support  his  well-poised  body. 

But  they  paused  a  moment  in  the  extremity  of  their 
surprise,  and  Fortunio  called  to  him  in  Italian  to  know 
the  meaning  of  this  attitude  of  his  as  well  as  that  of 
Marius,  who  lay  huddled  where  he  had  fallen. 

Garnache,  reckless  now,  disdaining  further  subter- 
fuge nor  seeking  to  have  recourse  to  subtleties  that 
could  avail  him  nothing,  retorted  in  French  with  the 
announcement  of  his  true  name.  At  that,  perceiv- 
ing that  here  was  some  deep  treachery  at  work,  they 
hesitated  no  longer. 

Led  by  Fortunio  they  attacked  him,  and  the  din 
they  made  in  the  next  few  minutes  with  their  heavy 
breathing,  their  frequent  oaths,  their  stamping  and 
springing  this  way  and  that,  and,  ringing  above  all, 
the  clash  and  clatter  of  sword  on  sword,  filled  the 
chamber  and  could  be  heard  in  the  courtyard  below. 


228  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


Minutes  sped,  yet  they  gained  no  advantage  on 
this  single  man;  not  one,  but  a  dozen  swords  did  he 
appear  to  wield,  so  rapid  were  his  passes,  so  ubiquitous 
his  point.  Had  he  but  stood  his  ground  there  might 
have  been  a  speedy  end  to  him,  but  he  retreated 
slowly  towards  the  door  of  the  antechamber.  Valerie 
still  stood  there,  watching  with  fearful  eyes  and  bated 
breath  that  tremendous  struggle  which  at  any  mo- 
ment she  expected  to  see  terminate  in  the  death  of 
her  only  friend. 

In  her  way  she  was  helping  Garnache,  though  she 
little  realized  it.  The  six  tapers  in  the  candle-branch 
she  held  aloft  afforded  the  only  light  for  that  stormy 
scene,  and  that  light  was  in  the  eyes  of  Garnache's 
assailants,  showing  him  their  faces  yet  leaving  his  own 
in  shadow. 

He  fell  back  steadily  towards  that  door.  He  could 
not  see  it;  but  there  was  not  the  need.  He  knew  that 
it  was  in  a  direct  line  with  the  one  that  opened  upon 
the  stairs,  and  by  the  latter  he  steered  his  backward 
course.  His  aim  was  to  gain  the  antechamber,  al- 
though they  guessed  it  not,  thinking  that  he  did  but 
retreat  through  inability  to  stand  his  ground.  His 
reasons  were  that  here  in  this  guard-room  the  best  he 
could  do  would  be  to  put  his  back  to  the  wall,  where 
he  might  pick  off  one  or  two  before  they  made  an  end 
of  him.  The  place  was  too  bare  to  suit  his  urgent,  fear- 
ful need.  Within  the  inner  room  there  was  furniture 
to  spare,  with  which  he  might  contrive  to  hamper  his 
opponents  and  give  them  such  a  lusty  fight  as  would 
live  in  the  memory  of  those  who  might  survive  it  for  as 
long  as  they  should  chance  to  live  thereafter. 

He  had  no  thought  of  perishing  himself,  although, 


HOW  GARNACHE  LEFT  CONDILLAC  229 


to  any  less  concerned,  his  death,  sooner  or  later,  must 
seem  inevitable  —  the  only  possible  conclusion  to  this 
affray,  taken  as  he  was.  His  mind  was  concerned  only 
with  this  fight;  his  business  to  kill,  and  not  himself  to 
be  slain.  He  knew  that  presently  others  would  come 
to  support  these  three.  Already,  perhaps,  they  were 
on  their  way,  and  he  husbanded  his  strength  against 
their  coming.  He  was  proudly  conscious  of  his  own 
superior  skill,  for  he  had  studied  the  art  of  fence 
in  Italy  —  its  home  —  during  his  earlier  years,  and 
there  was  no  trick  of  sword-play  with  which  he  was 
not  acquainted,  no  ruse  of  service  in  a  rough-and- 
tumble  in  which  he  was  unversed.  He  was  proudly 
conscious,  too,  of  his  supple  strength,  his  endurance, 
and  his  grea%  length  of  reach,  and  upon  all  these  he 
counted  to  help  him  make  a  decent  fight. 

Valerie,  watching  him,  guessed  his  purpose  to  be 
the  gaining  of  the  inner  chamber,  the  crossing  of  the 
threshold  on  which  she  was  standing.  She  drew  back 
a  pace  or  two,  almost  mechanically,  to  give  him  room. 
The  movement  went  near  to  costing  him  his  life.  The 
light  no  longer  falling  so  pitilessly  upon  Fortunio's 
eyes,  the  captain  saw  more  clearly  than  hitherto,  and 
shot  a  swift,  deadly  stroke  straight  at  the  region  of 
Garnache's  heart.  The  Parisian  leapt  back  when  it 
was  within  an  inch  of  his  breast;  one  of  the  bravoes 
followed  up,  springing  a  pace  in  advance  of  his  com- 
panions and  lengthening  his  arm  in  a  powerful  lunge. 
Garnache  caught  the  blade  almost  on  his  hilt,  and  by 
the  slightest  turn  of  the  wrist  made  a  simultaneous 
presentment  of  his  point  at  the  other's  outstretched 
throat.  It  took  the  fellow  just  above  the  Adam's 
apple,  and  with  a  horrid,  gurgling  cry  he  sank, 


230  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


stretched  as  he  still  was  in  the  attitude  of  that  mur- 
derous lunge  that  had  proved  fatal  only  to  himself. 

Garnache  had  come  on  guard  again  upon  the  in- 
stant. Yet  in  the  briefest  of  seconds  during  which 
his  sword  had  been  about  its  work  of  death,  Fortunio's 
rapier  came  at  him  a  second  time.  He  beat  the  blade 
aside  with  his  bare  left  hand  and  stopped  with  his 
point  the  rush  of  the  other  bravo.  Then  he  leapt  back 
again,  and  his  leap  brought  him  to  the  threshold  of 
the  anteroom.  He  retreated  quickly  a  pace,  and  then 
another.  He  was  a  sword's  length  within  the  cham- 
ber, and  now  he  stood,  firm  as  a  rock  and  engaged 
Fortunio's  blade,  which  had  followed  him  through  the 
doorway.  But  he  was  more  at  his  ease.  The  doorway 
was  narrow.  Two  men  abreast  could  not  beset  him, 
since  one  must  cumber  the  movements  of  the  other. 
If  they  came  at  him  one  at  a  time,  he  felt  that  he 
could  continue  that  fight  till  morning,  should  there 
still  by  then  be  any  left  to  face  him. 

A  wild  exultation  took  him,  an  insane  desire  to 
laugh.  Surely  was  sword-play  the  merriest  game 
that  was  ever  devised  for  man's  entertainment.  He 
straightened  his  arm,  and  his  steel  went  out  like  a 
streak  of  lightning.  But  for  the  dagger  on  which  he 
caught  its  edge,  the  blade  had  assuredly  pierced  the 
captain's  heart.  And  now,  fighting  still,  Garnache 
called  to  Valerie.  He  had  need  of  her  assistance  to 
make  his  preparations  ere  others  came. 

"  Set  down  your  tapers,  mademoiselle,"  he  bade  her, 
"on  the  mantelshelf  at  my  back.  Place  the  other 
candle-branch  there  too." 

Swiftly,  yet  with  half-swimming  senses,  everything 
dim  to  her  as  to  one  in  a  nightmare,  she  ran  to  do  his 


HOW  GARNACHE  LEFT  CONDILLAC  231 


bidding;  and  now  the  light,  placed  so  at  his  back,  gave 
him  over  his  opponents  the  same  slight  advantage 
that  he  had  enjoyed  before.  In  brisk  tones  he  issued 
his  fresh  orders. 

"Can  you  move  the  table,  mademoiselle?"  he 
asked  her.  "Try  to  drag  it  here,  to  the  wall  on  my 
left,  as  close  to  the  door  as  you  can  bring  it." 

"I  will  try,  monsieur,"  she  panted  through  dry  lips, 
and  again  she  moved  to  do  his  bidding.  Quickened 
by  the  need  there  was,  her  limbs,  which  awhile  ago 
had  seemed  on  the  point  of  refusing  their  office,  ap- 
peared to  gather  more  than  ordinary  strength.  She 
was  unconsciously  sobbing  in  her  passionate  anxiety 
to  render  him  what  help  was  possible.  Frenziedly  she 
caught  at  the  heavy  oaken  table,  and  began  to  drag  it 
across  the  room  as  Garnache  had  begged  her.  And 
now,  Fortunio  seeing  what  was  toward,  and  guessing 
Garnache's  intentions,  sought  by  a  rush  to  force  his 
way  into  the  chamber.  But  Garnache  was  ready  for 
him.  There  was  a  harsh  grind  of  steel  on  steel,  cul- 
minating in  a  resounding  beat,  and  Fortunio  was  back 
in  the  guard-room,  whither  he  had  leapt  to  save  his  skin. 

A  pause  fell  at  that,  and  Garnache  lowered  his  point 
to  rest  his  arm  until  they  should  again  come  at  him. 
From  beyond  the  doorway  the  captain  called  upon 
him  to  yield.  He  took  the  summons  as  an  insult,  and 
flew  into  a  momentary  passion. 

"  Yield  ? "  he  roared.  "  Yield  to  you,  you  cut-throat 
scum  ?  You  shall  have  my  sword  if  you  will  come  for 
it,  but  you  shall  have  it  in  your  throat." 

Angered  in  his  turn,  Fortunio  inclined  his  head  to 
his  companion's  ear,  issuing  an  order.  In  obedience  to 
it,  it  was  the  bravo  now  who  advanced  and  engaged 


232  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


Garnache.  Suddenly  he  dropped  on  to  his  knees,  and  . 
over  his  head  Garnache  found  his  blade  suddenly  op- 
posed by  Fortunio's.  It  was  a  clever  trick,  and  it  all 
but  did  Garnache's  business  then.  Yet  together  with 
the  surprise  of  it  there  came  to  him  the  understanding 
of  what  was  intended.  Under  his  guard  the  kneeling 
man's  sword  was  to  be  thrust  up  into  his  vitals.  As  a 
cry  of  alarm  broke  from  mademoiselle,  he  leapt  aside 
and  towards  the  wall,  where  he  was  covered  from 
Fortunio's  weapon,  and  turning  suddenly  he  passed 
his  sword  from  side  to  side  through  the  body  of  the 
kneeling  mercenary. 

The  whole  thing  he  had  performed  mechanically, 
more  by  instinct  than  by  reason;  and  when  it  was 
done,  and  the  tables  were  thus  effectively  turned  upon 
his  assailants,  he  scarcely  realized  how  he  had  accom- 
plished it. 

The  man's  body  cumbered  now  the  doorway,  and 
behind  him  Fortunio  stood,  never  daring  to  advance 
lest  a  thrust  of  that  sword  which  he  could  not  see 
—  Garnache  still  standing  close  against  the  wall  — 
should  serve  him  likewise. 

Garnache  leaned  there,  in  that  friendly  shelter, 
to  breathe,  and  he  smiled  grimly  under  cover  of  his 
mustache.  So  long  as  he  had  to  deal  with  a  single 
assailant  he  saw  no  need  to  move  from  so  excellent  a 
position.  Close  beside  him,  leaning  heavily  against 
the  table  she  had  dragged  thus  far,  stood  Valerie,  her 
face  livid  as  death,  her  heart  sick  within  her  at  the 
horror  inspired  her  by  that  thing  lying  on  the  thresh- 
old. She  could  not  take  her  eyes  from  the  crimson 
stain  that  spread  slowly  on  the  floor,  coming  from 
under  that  limply  huddled  mass  of  arms  and  legs. 


HOW  GARNACHE  LEFT  CONDILLAC  233 


"Do  not  look,  mademoiselle j "  Garnache  implored 
her  softly.  "Be  brave,  child;  try  to  be  brave." 

She  sought  to  brace  her  flagging  courage,  and  by  an 
effort  she  averted  her  eyes  from  that  horrid  heap  and 
fixed  them  upon  Garnache's  calm,  intrepid  face.  The 
sight  of  his  quietly  watchful  eyes,  his  grimly  smiling 
lips,  seemed  to  infuse  courage  into  her  anew. 

"I  have  the  table,  monsieur,"  she  told  him.  "I  can 
bring  it  no  nearer  to  the  wall." 

He  understood  that  this  was  not  because  her  cour- 
age or  her  strength  might  be  exhausted,  but  because 
he  now  occupied  the  spot  where  he  had  bidden  her 
place  it.  He  motioned  her  away,  and  when  she  had 
moved  he  darted  suddenly  and  swiftly  aside  and  caught 
the  table,  his  sword  still  fast  in  his  two  first  fingers, 
which  he  had  locked  over  the  quillons.  He  had  pushed 
its  massive  weight  halfway  across  the  door  before 
Fortunio  grasped  the  situation.  Instantly  the  captain 
sought  to  take  advantage  of  it,  thinking  to  catch  Gar- 
nache unawares.  But  no  sooner  did  he  show  his  nose 
inside  the  doorpost  than  Garnache's  sword  flashed  be- 
fore his  eyes,  driving  him  back  with  a  bloody  furrow 
in  his  cheek. 

"Have  a  care,  Monsieur  le  Capitaine,"  Garnache 
mocked  him.  "  Had  you  come  an  inch  farther  it  might 
have  been  the  death  of  you." 

A  clatter  of  steps  sounded  upon  the  stairs,  and  the 
Parisian  bent  once  more  to  his  task,  and  thrust  the 
table  across  the  open  doorway.  He  had  a  moment's 
respite  now,  for  Fortunio  stung  —  though  lightly  — 
was  not  likely  to  come  again  until  he  had  others  to 
support  him.  And  while  the  others  came,  while  the 
hum  of  their  voices  rose  higher,  and  finally  their  steps 


SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


clattered  over  the  bare  boards  of  the  guard-room 
floor,  Garnache  had  caught  up  and  flung  a  chair  under 
the  table  to  protect  him  from  an  attack  from  below, 
while  he  had  piled  another  on  top  to  increase  and 
further  strengthen  the  barricade. 

Valerie  watched  him  agonizedly,  leaning  now  against 
the  wall,  her  hands  pressed  across  her  bosom,  as  if  to 
keep  down  its  tempestuous  heaving.  Yet  her  anguish 
was  tempered  by  a  great  wonder  and  a  great  admira- 
tion of  this  man  who  could  keep  such  calm  eyes  and 
such  smiling  lips  in  the  face  of  the  dreadful  odds  by 
which  he  was  beset,  in  the  face  of  the  certain  death 
that  must  ultimately  reach  him  before  he  was  many 
minutes  older.  And  in  her  imagination  she  conjured 
up  a  picture  of  him  lying  there  torn  by  their  angry 
swords  and  drenched  in  blood,  his  life  gone  out  of  him, 
his  brave  spirit,  quenched  for  ever  —  and  all  for  her 
unworthy  sake.  Because  she  —  little,  worthless  thing 
that  she  was  —  would  not  marry  as  they  listed,  this 
fine,  chivalrous  soul  was  to  be  driven  from  its  stalwart 
body. 

An  agony  of  grief  took  her  now,  and  she  fell  once 
more  to  those  awful  sobs  that  awhile  ago  had  shaken 
her.  She  had  refused  to  marry  Marius  that  Flori- 
mond's  life  should  be  spared,  knowing  that  before  Ma- 
rius could  reach  him  she  herself  would  have  warned 
her  betrothed.  Yet  even  had  that  circumstance  not 
existed,  she  was  sure  that  still  she  would  have  refused 
to  do  the  will  of  Marius.  But  equally  sure  was  she 
that  she  would  not  so  refuse  him  were  he  now  to  offer 
as  the  price  of  her  compliance  the  life  of  Garnache, 
which  she  accounted  irrevocably  doomed. 

Suddenly  his  steady,  soothing  voice  penetrated  her 
anguished  musings. 


HOW  GARNACHE  LEFT  CONDILLAC  235 


"  Calm  yourself,  mademoiselle;  all  is  far  from  lost  as 
yet." 

She  thought  that  he  but  spoke  so  to  comfort  her; 
she  did  not  follow  the  working  of  his  warlike  mind, 
concentrated  entirely  upon  the  business  of  the  mo- 
ment, with  little  thought  —  or  care,  for  that  matter 
• —  for  what  might  betide  anon.  Yet  she  made  an 
effort  to  repress  her  sobs.  She  would  be  brave,  if  only 
to  show  herself  worthy  of  the  companionship  and 
friendship  of  so  brave  a  man. 

Across  his  barricade  he  peered  into  the  outer  room 
to  ascertain  with  what  fresh  opponents  he  might  have 
to  reckon,  and  he  was  surprised  to  see  but  four  men 
standing  by  Fortunio,  whilst  behind  them,  among 
the  thicker  shadows,  he  dimly  made  out  a  woman's 
figure  and,  beside  her,  another  man  who  was  short  and 
squat. 

He  bethought  him  that  the  hour,  and  the  circum- 
stance that  most  of  the  mercenaries  would  be  in 
their  beds,  accounted  for  the  reinforcement  not  be- 
ing greater. 

The  woman  moved  forward,  and  he  saw,  as  he  had 
suspected,  that  it  was  the  Dowager  herself.  The  squat 
figure  beside  her,  moving  with  her  into  the  shaft  of 
light  that  fell  from  the  doorway  Garnache  defended, 
revealed  to  him  the  features  of  Monsieur  de  Tressan. 
If  any  doubt  he  had  still  entertained  concerning  the 
Seneschal's  loyalty,  that  doubt  was  now  dispelled. 

And  now  the  Dowager  uttered  a  sudden  cry  of  fear. 
She  had  caught  sight  of  the  fallen  Marius,  and  she 
hurried  to  his  side.  Tressan  sped  after  her,  and  be- 
tween them  they  raised  the  boy  and  helped  him  to  a 
chair,  where  he  now  sat,  passing  a  heavy  hand  across 


236  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


his  no  doubt  aching  brow.  Clearly  he  was  recover- 
ing, from  which  Garnache  opined  with  regret  that  his 
blow  had  been  too  light.  The  Dowager  turned  to 
Fortunio,  who  had  approached  her,  and  her  eyes 
seemed  to  take  fire  at  something  that  he  told  her. 

"Garnache?"  the  Parisian  heard  her  say,  and  he 
saw  Fortunio  jerk  his  thumb  in  the  direction  of  the 
barricade. 

She  appeared  to  forget  her  son;  she  stepped  sud- 
denly from  his  side,  and  peered  through  the  door- 
way at  the  stalwart  figure  of  Garnache,  dimly  to  be 
seen  through  the  pile  of  furniture  that  protected  him 
to  the  height  of  his  breast.  No  word  said  she  to  the 
Parisian.  She  stood  regarding  him  a  moment  with  lips 
compressed  and  a  white,  startled,  angry  face.  Then: 

"  It  was  by  Marius's  contrivance  that  he  was  placed 
sentry  over  the  girl,"  he  heard  her  tell  Fortunio,  and 
he  thought  she  sneered. 

She  looked  at  the  two  bodies  on  the  floor,  one  al- 
most at  her  feet,  the  other  just  inside  the  doorway, 
now  almost  hidden  in  the  shadows  of  the  table.  Then 
she  issued  her  commands  to  the  men,  and  fiercely  she 
bade  them  pull  down  that  barricade  and  take  the  dog 
alive. 

But  before  they  could  move  to  do  her  bidding, 
Garnache's  voice  rang  imperatively  through  the  cham- 
ber. 

"A  word  with  you  ere  they  begin,  Monsieur  de 
Tressan,"  he  shouted,  and  such  was  the  note  of  com- 
mand he  assumed  that  the  men  stood  arrested,  look- 
ing to  the  Dowager  for  fresh  orders.  Tressan  changed 
colour,  for  all  that  there  was  surely  naught  to  fear, 
and  he  fingered  his  beard  perplexedly,  looking  to  the 


HOW  GARNACHE  LEFT  CONDILLAC  237 


Marquise  for  direction.  She  flashed  him  a  glance, 
lifted  one  shoulder  disdainfully,  and  to  the  men: 

"Fetch  him  out,"  said  she,  and  she  pointed  to  Gar- 
nache.  But  again  Garnache  stayed  them. 

"Monsieur  de  Tressan,"  he  called  impressively, 
"  to  your  dying  day  —  and  that  will  be  none  so  dis- 
tant—  shall  you  regret  it  if  you  do  not  hear  me." 

The  Seneschal  was  stirred  by  those  words  and  the 
half-threat,  half-warning,  they  seemed  to  cover.  He 
paused  a  moment,  and  this  time  his  eyes  avoided  the 
Marquise's.  At  last,  taking  a  step  forward, 

"Knave,"  said  he,  "I  do  not  know  you." 

"You  know  me  well  enough.  You  have  heard  my 
name.  I  am  Martin  Marie  Rigobert  de  Garnache,  Her 
Majesty's  emissary  into  Dauphiny  to  procure  the  en- 
largement of  Mademoiselle  de  La  Vauvraye  from  the 
Chateau  de  Condillac,  where  she  is  detained  by  force 
and  for  the  serving  of  unscrupulous  ends.  Now  you 
know  me  and  my  quality." 

The  Dowager  stamped  her  foot. 

"Fetch  him  out!"  she  commanded  harshly. 

"Hear  me  first,  Monsieur  le  Seneschal,  or  it  will  be 
the  worse  for  you."  And  the  Seneschal,  moved  by 
that  confident  promise  of  evil,  threw  himself  before 
the  men-at-arms. 

"A  moment,  I  beseech  you,  Marquise,"  he  cried, 
and  the  men,  seeing  his  earnestness  and  knowing  his 
quality,  stood  undecided,  buffeted  as  they  were  be- 
tween his  will  and  the  Marquise's.  "What  have  you 
to  say  to  me?"  Tressan  demanded,  seeking  to  render 
arrogant  his  tone. 

"This:  That  my  servant  knows  where  I  am,  and 
that  should  I  fail  within  a  very  few  days  to  come  forth 


238  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


safe  and  sound  from  Condillac  to  rejoin  him,  he  is  to 
ride  to  Paris  with  certain  letters  I  have  given  him. 
Those  letters  incriminate  you  to  the  full  in  this  in- 
famous matter  here  at  Condillac.  I  have  set  forth  in 
them  how  you  refused  me  help,  how  you  ignored  the 
Queen's  commands  of  which  I  was  the  bearer;  and 
should  it  be  proved,  in  addition,  that  through  your 
treachery  and  insubordination  my  life  has  been  lost,  I 
promise  you  that  nothing  in  all  this  world  will  save 
you  from  a  hanging." 

"Never  listen,  monsieur,"  cried  the  Dowager,  see- 
ing Tressan  start  back  like  a  man  in  sudden  fear.  "It 
is  no  more  than  the  ruse  of  a  desperate  man." 

"Heed  me  or  not,  at  your  choice,"  Garnache  re- 
torted, addressing  himself  ever  to  Tressan.  "You 
have  had  your  warning.  I  little  thought  to  see  you 
here  to-night.  But  seeing  you  confirms  my  worst 
suspicions,  and  if  I  am  to  die,  I  can  die  easy  in  my 
conscience  at  the  thought  that  in  sacrificing  you  to 
Her  Majesty's  wrath  I  have  certainly  not  sacrificed  an 
innocent  man." 

"Madame  — "  the  Seneschal  began,  turning  to  the 
Dowager.  But  she  broke  in  impatiently  upon  his  in- 
tended words,  upon  the  prayer  that  bubbled  to  his 
lips  that  she  should  pause  a  while  ere  she  made  an  end 
of  this  Parisian. 

"Monsieur,"  said  she,  "you  may  bargain  with  him 
when  he  is  taken.  We  will  have  him  alive.  Go  in,"  she 
bade  her  men,  her  voice  so  resolute  now  that  none 
dared  tarry  longer.  "Fetch  the  knave  out  —  alive." 

Garnache  smiled  at  mademoiselle  as  the  words  were 
uttered. 

"They  want  me  alive,"  said  he.  "That  is  a  hopeful 


HOW  GARNACHE  LEFT  CONDILLAC  239 


state  of  things.  Bear  up,  child;  I  may  need  your  help 
ere  we  are  through." 

"You  shall  find  me  ready,  monsieur,"  she  assured 
him  for  all  her  tremors.  He  looked  at  the  pale  face, 
composed  now  by  an  effort  of  her  will,  and  at  the 
beautiful  hazel  eyes  which  strove  to  meet  his  with 
calm  and  to  reflect  his  smile,  and  he  marvelled  at  her 
courage  as  much  as  did  she  at  his. 

Then  the  assault  began,  and  he  could  have  laughed 
at  the  way  in  which  a  couple  of  those  cut-throats  — 
neither  wishing  to  have  the  honour  of  meeting  him 
singly  —  hindered  each  other  by  seeking  to  attack 
him  at  once. 

At  last  the  Dowager  commanded  one  of  them  to  go 
in.  The  fellow  came,  and  he  was  driven  back  by  the 
sword  that  darted  at  him  from  above  the  barricade. 

There  matters  might  have  come  to  a  deadlock,  but 
that  Fortunio  came  forward  with  one  of  his  men  to 
repeat  the  tactics  which  had  cost  him  a  life  already. 
His  fellow  went  down  on  his  knees,  and  drove  his 
sword  under  the  table  and  through  the  frame  of  the 
chair,  seeking  to  prick  Garnache  in  the  legs.  Simul- 
taneously the  captain  laid  hold  of  an  arm  of  the  chair 
above,  and  sought  to  engage  Garnache  across  it.  The 
ruse  succeeded  to  the  extent  of  compelling  the  Pari- 
sian to  retreat.  The  table  seemed  likely  to  be  his  un- 
doing instead  of  helping  him.  He  dropped  like  light- 
ning to  one  knee,  seeking  to  force  the  fellow  out  from 
underneath.  But  the  obstacles  which  should  have 
hindered  his  assailants  hindered  Garnache  even  more 
at  this  juncture.  In  that  instant  Fortunio  whipped 
the  chair  from  the  table-top,  and  flung  it  forward. 
One  of  its  legs  caught  Garnache  on  the  sword-arm, 


24o  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


deadening  it  for  a  second.  The  sword  fell  from  his 
hand,  and  Valerie  shrieked  aloud,  thinking  the  battle 
at  an  end.  But  the  next  moment  he  was  on  his  feet, 
his  rapier  firmly  gripped  once  more,  for  all  that  his 
arm  still  felt  a  trifle  numbed.  As  seconds  passed  the 
numbness  wore  away,  but  before  that  had  taken  place 
the  table  had  been  thrust  forward,  and  the  man  be- 
neath it  had  made  it  impossible  for  Garnache  to 
hinder  this.  Suddenly  he  called  to  Valerie. 

"A  cloak,  mademoiselle!  Get  me  a  cloak!"  he 
begged.  And  she,  stemming  her  fears  once  more,  ran 
to  do  his  bidding. 

She  caught  up  a  cloak  that  lay  on  a  chair  by  the  door 
of  her  bed-chamber,  and  brought  it  to  him.  He  twisted 
it  twice  round  his  left  arm,  letting  its  folds  hang  loose, 
and  advanced  again  to  try  conclusions  with  the  gentle- 
man underneath.  He  cast  the  garment  so  that  it  en- 
meshed the  sword  when  next  it  was  advanced.  Step- 
ping briskly  aside,  he  was  up  to  the  table,  and  his 
busy  blade  drove  back  the  man  who  assailed  him 
across  it.  He  threw  his  weight  against  it,  and  thrust 
it  back  till  it  was  jammed  hard  once  more  against  the 
doorposts,  leaving  the  chair  at  his  very  feet.  The  man 
beneath  had  recovered  his  sword  by  this,  and  again  he 
sought  to  use  it.  That  was  the  end  of  him.  Again 
Garnache  enmeshed  it,  kicked  away  the  chair,  or, 
rather,  thrust  it  aside  with  his  foot,  stooped  suddenly, 
and  driving  his  blade  under  the  table  felt  it  sink  into 
the  body  of  his  tormentor. 

There  was  a  groan  and  a  spluttering  cough,  and 
then  before  Garnache  could  recover  he  heard  made- 
moiselle crying  out  to  him  to  beware.  The  table  was 
thrust  suddenly  forward  almost  on  top  of  him;  its  edge 


HOW  GARNACHE  LEFT  CONDILLAC  241 


caught  his  left  shoulder,  and  sent  him  back  a  full  yard, 
sprawling  upon  the  ground. 

To  rise  again,  gasping  for  air  —  for  the  fall  had 
shaken  him  —  was  the  work  of  an  instant.  But  in 
that  instant  Fortunio  had  thrust  the  table  clear  of  the 
doorway,  and  his  men  were  pouring  into  the  room. 

They  came  at  Garnache  in  a  body,  with  wild  shouts 
and  fierce  mockery,  and  he  hurriedly  fell  on  guard  and 
gave  way  before  them  until  his  shoulders  were  against 
the  wainscot  and  he  had  at  least  the  assurance  that 
none  could  take  him  in  the  rear.  Three  blades  en- 
gaged his  own.  Fortunio  had  come  no  farther  than 
the  doorway,  where  he  stood,  his  torn  cheek  drenched 
in  blood,  watching  the  scene,  the  Marquise  beside  him, 
and  Tressan  standing  just  behind  them,  very  pale  and 
scared. 

Yet  Garnache's  first  thought  even  in  that  moment 
of  dire  peril  was  for  Valerie.  He  would  spare  her  the 
sight  that  must  before  many  moments  be  spread  to 
view  within  that  shambles. 

"To  your  chamber,  mademoiselle,"  he  cried  to  her. 
"  You  hinder  me,"  he  added,  by  way  of  compelling  her 
obedience.  She  did  his  bidding,  but  only  in  part.  No 
farther  went  she  than  the  doorway  of  her  room,  where 
she  remained  standing,  watching  the  fray  as  earlier 
she  had  stood  and  watched  it  from  the  door  of  the 
antechamber. 

Suddenly  she  was  moved  by  inspiration.  He  had 
gained  an  advantage  before  by  retreating  through  a 
doorway  into  an  inner  room.  Might  he  not  do  the 
same  again,  and  be  in  better  case  if  he  were  to  retreat 
now  to  her  own  chamber?  Impulsively  she  called  to 
him. 


242  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


"In  here,  Monsieur  de  Garnache.  In  here." 

The  Marquise  looked  across  at  her,  and  smiled  in 
mockery.  Garnache  was  too  well  occupied,  she  thought, 
to  attempt  any  such  rashness.  If  he  but  dared  remove 
his  shoulders  from  the  wall  there  would  be  a  speedier 
end  to  him  than  as  things  were. 

Not  so,  however,  thought  Garnache.  The  cloak 
twisted  about  his  left  arm  gave  him  some  advantage, 
and  he  used  it  to  the  full.  He  flicked  the  slack  of  it  in 
the  face  of  one,  and  followed  it  up  by  stabbing  the 
fellow  in  the  stomach  before  he  could  recover  guard, 
whilst  with  another  wave  of  that  cloak  he  enmeshed 
the  sword  that  shot  readily  into  the  opening  he  had 
left. 

Madame  cursed,  and  Fortunio  echoed  her  impreca- 
tions. The  Seneschal  gasped,  his  fears  lost  in  amaze- 
ment at  so  much  valour  and  dexterity. 

Garnache  swung  away  from  the  wall  now,  and  set 
his  back  to  mademoiselle,  determined  to  act  upon  her 
advice.  But  even  in  that  moment  he  asked  himself  for 
the  first  time  since  the  commencement  of  that  carnage 
—  to  what  purpose  ?  His  arms  were  growing  heavy 
with  fatigue,  his  mouth  was  parched,  and  great  beads 
of  perspiration  stood  upon  his  brow.  Soon  he  would 
be  spent,  and  they  would  not  fail  to  take  a  very  full 
advantage  of  it. 

Hitherto  his  mind  had  been  taken  up  with  the 
battle  only,  and  if  he  had  thought  of  retreating,  it  was 
but  to  the  end  that  he  might  gain  a  position  of  some 
vantage.  Now,  conscious  of  his  growing  fatigue,  his 
thoughts  turned  them  at  last  to  the  consideration  of 
flight.  Was  there  no  way  out  of  it?  Must  he  kill  every 
man  in  Condillac  before  he  could  hope  to  escape? 


HOW  GARNACHE  LEFT  CONDILLAC  243 


Whimsically,  and  almost  mechanically,  he  set  him- 
self, in  his  mind,  to  count  the  men.  There  were  twenty 
mercenaries  all  told,  excluding  Fortunio  and  himself. 
On  Arsenio  he  might  rely  not  to  attack  him,  perhaps 
even  to  come  to  his  assistance  at  the  finish.  That  left 
nineteen.  Four  he  had  already  either  killed  outright 
or  effectively  disabled;  so  that  fifteen  remained  him. 
The  task  of  dealing  with  those  other  fifteen  was 
utterly  beyond  him.  Presently,  no  doubt,  the  two 
now  opposing  him  would  be  reinforced  by  others.  So 
that  if  any  possible  way  out  existed,  he  had  best  set 
about  finding  it  at  once. 

He  wondered  could  he  cut  down  these  two,  make  an 
end  of  Fortunio,  and,  running  for  it,  attempt  to  escape 
through  the  postern  before  the  rest  of  the  garrison 
had  time  to  come  up  with  him  or  guess  his  purpose. 
But  the  notion  was  too  wild,  its  accomplishment  too 
impossible. 

He  was  fighting  now  with  his  back  to  mademoiselle 
and  his  face  to  the  tall  window,  through  the  leaded 
panes  of  which  he  caught  the  distorted  shape  of  a 
crescent  moon.  Suddenly  the  idea  came  to  him. 
Through  that  window  must  lie  his  way.  It  was  a 
good  fifty  feet  above  the  moat,  he  knew,  and  if  he 
essayed  to  leap  it,  it  must  be  an  even  chance  that  he 
would  be  killed  in  leaping.  But  the  chance  of  death 
was  a  certain  one  if  he  tarried  where  he  was  until 
others  came  to  support  his  present  opponents.  And 
so  he  briskly  determined  upon  the  lesser  risk. 

He  remembered  that  the  window  was  nailed  down, 
as  it  had  remained  since  mademoiselle's  pretended 
attempt  at  flight.  But  surely  that  should  prove  no 
formidable  obstacle. 


244  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


And  now  that  his  resolve  was  taken  his  tactics 
abruptly  changed.  Hitherto  he  had  been  sparing  of 
his  movements,  husbanding  his  strength  against  the 
long  battle  that  seemed  promised  him.  Suddenly  he 
assumed  the  offensive  where  hitherto  he  had  but  acted 
in  self-defence,  and  a  most  deadly  offensive  was  it. 
He  plied  his  cloak,  untwisting  it  from  his  arm  and 
flinging  it  over  the  head  and  body  of  one  of  his  assail- 
ants, so  that  he  was  enmeshed  and  blinded  by  it. 
Leaping  to  the  fellow's  flank,  Garnache,  with  a 
terrific  kick,  knocked  his  legs  from  under  him  so  that 
he  fell  heavily.  Then,  stooping  suddenly,  the  Parisian 
ran  his  blade  under  the  other  brave's  guard  and 
through  the  fellow's  thigh.  The  man  cried  out,  stag- 
gered, and  then  went  down  utterly  disabled. 

One  swift  downward  thrust  Garnache  made  at  the 
mass  that  wriggled  under  his  cloak.  The  activity  of 
its  wriggles  increased  in  the  next  few  seconds,  then 
ceased  altogether. 

Tressan  felt  wet  from  head  to  foot  with  a  sweat  pro- 
voked by  horror  of  what  he  saw.  The  Dowager's  lips 
were  pouring  forth  a  horrid  litany  of  guard-room  oaths, 
and  meanwhile  Garnache  had  swung  round  to  meet 
Fortunio,  the  last  of  all  who  had  stood  with  him. 

The  captain  came  on  boldly,  armed  with  sword  and 
dagger,  and  in  that  moment,  feeling  himself  spent, 
Garnache  bitterly  repented  having  relinquished  his 
cloak.  Yet  he  made  a  stubborn  fight,  and  whilst  they 
fenced  and  stamped  about  that  room,  Marius  came  to 
watch  them,  staggering  to  his  mother's  side  and  lean- 
ing heavily  upon  Tressan's  shoulder.  The  Marquise 
turned  to  him,  her  face  livid  to  the  lips. 

"That  man  must  be  the  very  fiend,"  Garnache 


HOW  GARNACHE  LEFT  CONDILLAC  245 


heard  her  tell  her  son.  "Run  for  help,  Tressan,  or, 
God  knows,  he  may  escape  us  yet.  Go  for  men,  or  we 
shall  have  Fortunio  killed  as  well.  Bid  them  bring 
muskets." 

Tressan,  moving  like  one  bereft  of  wits,  went  her 
errand,  while  the  two  men  fought  on,  stamping  and 
panting,  circling  and  lunging,  their  breath  coming  in 
gasps,  their  swords  grinding  and  clashing  till  sparks 
leapt  from  them. 

The  dust  rose  up  to  envelop  and  almost  choke 
them,  and  more  than  once  they  slipped  in  the  blood 
with  which  the  floor  was  spattered,  whilst  presently 
Garnache  barely  recovered  and  saved  himself  from 
stumbling  over  the  body  of  one  of  his  victims  against 
which  his  swiftly  moving  feet  had  hurtled. 

And  the  Dowager,  who  watched  the  conflict  and 
who  knew  something  of  sword-play,  realized  that, 
tired  though  Garnache  might  be,  unless  help  came 
soon  or  some  strange  chance  gave  the  captain  the  ad- 
vantage, Fortunio  would  be  laid  low  with  the  others. 

His  circling  had  brought  the  Parisian  round,  so  that 
his  back  was  now  to  the  window,  his  face  to  the  door 
of  the  bedchamber,  where  mademoiselle  still  watched 
in  ever-growing  horror.  His  right  shoulder  was  in  line 
with  the  door  of  the  antechamber,  which  madame 
occupied,  and  he  never  saw  her  quit  Marius's  side  and 
creep  slyly  into  the  room  to  speed  swiftly  round  be- 
hind him. 

The  only  one  from  whom  he  thought  that  he  might 
have  cause  to  fear  treachery  was  trie  man  whom  he 
had  dropped  with  a  thigh  wound,  and  he  was  careful 
to  keep  beyond  the  reach  of  any  sudden  sword-thrust 
from  that  fellow. 


246  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


But  if  he  did  not  see  the  woman's  movements,  made- 
1  moiselle  saw  them,  and  the  sight  set  her  eyes  dilating 
with  a  new  fear.  She  guessed  the  Dowager's  treacher- 
ous purpose.  And  no  sooner  had  she  guessed  it  than, 
with  a  choking  sob,  she  told  herself  that  what  madame 
could  do  that  could  she  also. 

Suddenly  Garnache  saw  an  opening;  Fortunio's 
eyes,  caught  by  the  Dowager's  movements,  strayed 
for  a  moment  past  his  opponent,  and  the  thing  would 
have  been  fatal  to  the  captain  but  that  in  that  mo- 
ment, as  Garnache  was  on  the  point  of  lunging,  he  felt 
himself  caught  from  behind,  his  arms  pinioned  to  his 
sides  by  a  pair  of  slender  ones  that  twined  themselves 
about  him,  and  over  his  shoulder,  the  breath  of  it  fan- 
ning his  hot  cheek,  came  a  vicious  voice  — 

"Stab  now,  Fortunio!" 

The  captain  asked  nothing  better.  He  raised  his 
weary  sword-arm  and  brought  his  point  to  the  level  of 
Garnache's  breast,  but  in  that  instant  its  weight  be- 
came leaden.  Imitating  the  Marquise,  Valerie  had 
been  in  time.  She  seized  Fortunio's  half-lifted  arm 
and  flung  all  her  weight  upon  it. 

The  captain  cursed  her  horridly  in  a  frenzy  of  fear, 
for  he  saw  that  did  Garnache  shake  off  the  Marquise 
there  would  be  an  end  of  himself.  He  sought  to 
wrench  himself  free  of  her  detaining  grasp,  and  the 
exertion  brought  him  down,  weary  as  he  was,  and  with 
her  weight  hanging  to  him.  He  sank  to  his  knees,  and 
the  girl,  still  clinging  valiantly,  sank  with  him,  calling 
to  Garnache  that  she  held  the  captain  fast. 

Putting  forth  all  his  remaining  strength,  the 
Parisian  twisted  from  the  Dowager's  encircling  grasp 
and  hurled  her  from  him  with  a  violence  he  nowise 
intended. 


HOW  GARNACHE  LEFT  CONDILLAC  247 


"Yours,  madame,  are  the  first  woman's  arms  that 
ever  Martin  de  Garnache  has  known,"  said  he.  "And 
never  could  embrace  of  beauty  have  been  less  wel- 
come." 

Panting,  he  caught  up  one  of  the  overturned  chairs. 
Holding  it  by  the  back  he  made  for  the  window.  He 
had  dropped  his  sword,  and  he  called  to  mademoiselle 
to  hold  the  captain  yet  an  instant  longer.  He  swung 
his  chair  aloft  and  dashed  it  against  the  window. 
There  was  a  thundering  crash  of  shivered  glass  and  a 
cool  draught  of  that  November  night  came  to  sweeten 
the  air  that  had  been  fouled  by  the  stamping  of  the 
fighters. 

Again  he  swung  up  his  chair  and  dashed  it  at  the 
window,  and  yet  again,  until  no  window  remained,  but 
a  great,  gaping  opening  with  a  fringe  of  ragged  glass 
and  twisted  leadwork. 

In  that  moment  Fortunio  struggled  to  his  feet,  free 
of  the  girl,  who  sank,  almost  in  a  swoon.  He  sprang 
towards  Garnache.  The  Parisian  turned  and  flung  his 
now  shattered  chair  toward  the  advancing  captain.  It 
dropped  at  his  feet,  and  his  flying  shins  struck  against 
an  edge  of  it,  bringing  him,  hurt  and  sprawling,  to  the 
ground.  Before  he  could  recover,  a  figure  was  flying 
through  the  open  gap  that  lately  had  been  a  window. 

Mademoiselle  sat  up  and  screamed. 

"You  will  be  killed,  Monsieur  de  Garnache!  Dear 
God,  you  will  be  killed!"  and  the  anguish  in  her  voice 
was  awful. 

It  was  the  last  thing  that  reached  the  ears  of  Mon- 
sieur de  Garnache  as  he  tumbled  headlong  through 
the  darkness  of  the  chill  November  night. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


IN  THE  MOAT 

FORTUNIO  and  the  Marquise  reached  the  win- 
dow side  by  side,  and  they  were  in  time  to  hear  a 
dull  splash  in  the  waters  fifty  feet  below  them.  There 
was  a  cloud  over  the  little  sickle  of  moon,  and  to  their 
eyes,  fresh  from  the  blaze  of  candle-light,  the  dark- 
ness was  impenetrable. 

"He  is  in  the  moat,"  cried  the  Marquise  excitedly, 
and  Valerie,  who  sat  on  the  floor  whither  she  had 
slipped  when  Fortunio  shook  her  off,  rocked  herself  in 
an  agony  of  fear. 

To  the  horrors  about  her  —  the  huddled  bodies 
lying  so  still  upon  the  floor,  the  bloody  footprints 
everywhere,  the  shattered  furniture,  and  the  groans 
of  the  man  with  the  wounded  thigh  —  to  all  this  she 
was  insensible.  Garnache  was  dead,  she  told  herself; 
he  was  surely  dead;  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  very 
thought  of  it  were  killing,  too,  a  part  of  her  own  self. 

Unconsciously  she  sobbed  her  fears  aloud.  "He  is 
dead,"  she  moaned;  "he  is  dead." 

The  Marquise  overheard  that  piteous  cry,  and 
turned  to  survey  the  girl,  her  brows  lifting,  her  lips 
parting  in  an  astonishment  that  for  a  second  effaced 
the  horrors  of  that  night.  Suspicion  spread  like  an  oil 
stain  in  her  evil  mind.  She  stepped  forward  and 
caught  the  girl  by  one  of  her  limp  arms.  Marius, 
paler  than  his  stunning  had  left  him,  leaned  more 
heavily  against  the  door-post,  and  looked  on  with 


IN  THE  MOAT 


249 


bloodshot  eyes.  If  ever  maiden  avowed  the  secret  of 
her  heart,  it  seemed  to  him  that  Valerie  avowed  it 
then. 

The  Maraxuise  shook  her  angrily. 

"What  was  he  to  you,  girl?  What  was  he  to  you?" 
she  demanded  shrilly. 

And  the  girl,  no  more  than  half  conscious  of  what 
she  was  saying,  made  answer: 

"The  bravest  gentleman,  the  noblest  friend  I  have 
ever  known." 

"Pah ! "  The  Dowager  dropped  her  arm  and  turned 
to  issue  a  command  to  Fortunio.  But  already  the 
fellow  had  departed.  His  concern  was  not  with  wo- 
men, but  with  the  man  who  had  escaped  him.  He 
must  make  certain  that  the  fall  had  killed  Gar- 
nache. 

Breathless  and  worn  as  he  was,  all  spattered  now 
with  blood  from  the  scratch  in  his  cheek,  which  lent 
him  a  terrific  aspect,  he  dashed  from  that  shambles 
and  across  the  guard-room.  He  snatched  up  a  lighted 
lantern  that  had  been  left  in  the  doorway  and  leapt 
down  the  stairs  and  into  the  courtyard.  Here  he  came 
upon  Monsieur  de  Tressan  with  a  half-dozen  fellows  at 
his  heels,  all  more  or  less  half  clad,  but  all  very  fully 
armed  with  swords  and  knives,  and  one  or  two  with 
muskets. 

Roughly,  with  little  thought  for  the  dignity  of  his 
high  office,  he  thrust  the  Lord  Seneschal  aside  and 
turned  the  men.  Some  he  ordered  off  to  the  stables  to 
get  horses,  for  if  Garnache  had  survived  his  leap  and 
swum  the  moat,  they  must  give  chase.  Whatever  be- 
tide, the  Parisian  must  not  get  away.  He  feared  the 
consequences  of  that  as  much  for  himself  as  for  Con- 


250  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


dillac.  Some  five  or  six  of  the  men  he  bade  follow  him, 
and  never  pausing  to  answer  any  of  Tressan's  fearful 
questions,  he  sped  across  the  courtyard,  through  the 
kitchens  —  which  was  the  nearest  way  —  into  the 
outer  quadrangle.  Never  pausing  to  draw  breath, 
spent  though  he  was,  he  pursued  his  flight  under  the 
great  archway  of  the  keep  and  across  the  drawbridge, 
the  raising  of  which  had  been  that  night  postponed  to 
await  the  Lord  Seneschal's  departure. 

Here  on  the  bridge  he  paused  and  turned  in  a  frenzy 
to  scream  to  his  followers  that  they  should  fetch  more 
torches.  Meanwhile  he  snatched  the  only  one  at  hand 
from  the  man-at-arms  that  carried  it. 

His  men  sprang  into  the  guard-room  of  the  keep, 
realizing  from  his  almost  hysterical  manner  the  urgent 
need  for  haste.  And  while  he  waited  for  them,  stand- 
ing there  on  the  bridge,  his  torch  held  high,  he  scanned 
by  its  lurid  red  light  the  water  as  far  as  eye  could 
reach  on  either  side  of  him. 

There  was  a  faint  movement  on  the  dark,  oily  sur- 
face for  all  that  no  wind  stirred.  Not  more  than  four 
or  five  minutes  could  have  elapsed  since  Garnache's 
leap,  and  it  would  seem  as  if  the  last  ripple  from  the 
disturbance  of  his  plunge  had  not  yet  rolled  itself  out. 
But  otherwise  there  was  nothing  here,  nor  did  For- 
tunio  expect  aught.  The  window  of  the  Northern 
Tower  abutted  on  to  the  other  side  of  the  chateau, 
and  it  was  there  he  must  look  for  traces  of  the  fugi- 
tive or  for  his  body. 

"Hasten!"  he  shouted  over  his  shoulder.  "Follow 
me!"  And  without  waiting  for  them  he  ran  across 
the  bridge  and  darted  round  the  building,  his  torch 
scattering  a  shower  of  sparks  behind  him  on  the 


IN  THE  MOAT 


251 


night,  and  sending  little  rills  of  blood-red  light  adown 
the  sword  which  he  still  carried. 

He  gained  the  spot  where  Garnache  must  have 
fallen,  and  he  stood  below  the  radiance  that  clove  the 
night  from  the  shattered  window  fifty  feet  above, 
casting  the  light  of  his  torch  this  way  and  that  over 
the  black  bosom  of  the  moat.  Not  a  ripple  moved  now 
upon  that  even,  steely  surface.  Voices  sounded  be- 
hind him,  and  with  them  a  great  glare  of  ruddy  light 
came  to  herald  the  arrival  of  his  men.  He  turned  to 
them  and  pointed  with  his  sword  away  from  the 
chateau. 

"Spread  yourselves!"  he  shouted.  "Make  search 
yonder.  He  cannot  have  gone  far." 

And  they,  but  dimly  realizing  whom  they  sought, 
yet  realizing  that  they  sought  a  man,  dashed  off  and 
spread  themselves  as  he  had  bidden  them,  to  search 
the  stretch  of  meadowland,  where  ill  must  betide  any 
fugitive,  since  no  cover  offered. 

Fortunio  remained  where  he  was  at  the  edge  of  the 
moat.  He  stooped,  and  waving  his  torch  along  the 
ground  he  moved  to  the  far  angle  of  the  chateau, 
examining  the  soft,  oozy  clay.  It  was  impossible  that 
a  man  could  have  clambered  out  over  that  without 
leaving  some  impression.  He  reached  the  corner  and 
found  the  clay  intact;  at  least,  nowhere  could  he  dis- 
cover a  mark  of  hands  or  a  footprint  set  as  would  be 
that  of  a  man  emerging  from  the  water. 

He  retraced  his  steps  and  went  back  until  he  had 
reached  the  eastern  angle  of  the  chateau,  yet  always 
with  the  same  result.  He  straightened  himself  at  last, 
and  his  manner  was  more  calm;  his  frenzied  haste  was 
gone,  and  deliberately  he  now  raised  his  torch  and  let 


252  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


its  light  shine  again  over  the  waters.  He  pondered 
them  a  moment,  his  dark  eyes  musing  almost  regret- 
fully. 

"Drowned!"  he  said  aloud,  and  sheathed  his  sword. 

From  the  window  overhead  a  voice  hailed  him.  He 
looked  up  and  saw  the  Dowager,  and,  behind  her,  the 
figure  of  her  son.  Away  in  the  meadows  the  lights  of 
his  men's  torches  darted  hither  and  thither  like  play- 
ful jack-oUanterns. 

"Have  you  got  him,  Fortunio?" 

"Yes,  madame,"  he  answered  with  assurance. 
"You  may  have  his  body  when  you  will.  He  is  under- 
neath here."  And  he  pointed  to  the  water. 

They  appeared  to  take  his  word  for  it,  for  they 
questioned  him  no  further.  The  Marquise  turned  to 
mademoiselle,  who  was  still  sitting  on  the  floor. 

"He  is  drowned,  Valerie,"  she  said  slowly,  watch- 
ing the  girl's  face. 

Valerie  looked  up.  Her  eyes  were  very  wide,  and 
her  lips  moved  for  a  second.  Then  she  fell  forward 
without  a  word.  This  last  horror,  treading  on  the 
heels  of  all  those  that  already  had  assailed  her, 
proved  too  great  a  strain  for  her  brave  spirit.  She 
had  swooned. 

Tressan  entered  at  that  moment,  full  of  questions 
as  to  what  might  be  toward,  for  he  had  understood 
nothing  in  the  courtyard.  The  Marquise  called  to  him 
to  help  her  with  the  girl,  Marius  being  still  too  faint, 
and  between  them  they  bore  her  to  her  chamber,  laid 
her  on  the  bed,  and,  withdrawing,  closed  the  door 
upon  her.  Then  she  signed  to  Marius  and  the  Sene- 
schal. 

"Come,"  she  said;  "let  us  go.  The  sight  and  sme^1 


IN  THE  MOAT 


253 


of  the  place  are  turning  me  sick,  although  my  stomach 
is  strong  enough  to  endure  most  horrors." 

She  took  up  one  of  the  candle-branches  to  light 
them,  and  they  went  below  and  made  their  way  to  the 
hall,  where  they  found  Marius's  page,  Gaston,  looking 
very  pale  and  scared  at  the  din  that  had  filled  the 
chateau  during  the  past  half-hour  or  so.  With  him 
was  Marius's  hound,  which  the  poor  boy  had  kept  by 
him  for  company  and  protection  in  that  dreadful  time. 

The  Marquise  spoke  to  him  kindly,  and  she  stooped 
to  pat  the  dog's  glossy  head.  Then  she  bade  Gaston 
set  wine  for  them,  and  when  it  was  fetched  the  three 
of  them  drank  in  brooding,  gloomy  silence. 

The  draught  invigorated  Marius,  it  cheered  Tres- 
san's  drooping  spirits,  and  it  quenched  the  Dowager's 
thirst.  The  Seneschal  turned  to  her  again  with  his  un- 
answered questions  touching  the  end  of  that  butchery 
above-stairs.  She  told  him  what  Fortunio  had  said  — 
that  Garnache  was  drowned  as  a  consequence  of  his 
mad  leap  from  the  window. 

Into  Tressan's  mind  there  sprang  the  memory  of 
the  thing  Garnache  had  promised  should  befall  him  in 
such  a  case.  It  drove  the  colour  from  his  cheeks  and 
brought  great  lines  of  fearful  care  into  sharp  relief 
about  his  mouth  and  eyes. 

"Madame,  we  are  ruined!"  he  groaned. 

"Tressan,"  she  answered  him  contemptuously, 
"you  are  chicken-hearted.  Listen  to  me.  Did  he  not 
say  that  he  had  left  his  man  behind  him  when  he  came 
to  Condillac  ?  Where  think  you  that  he  left  his  man  ? " 

"Maybe  in  Grenoble,"  answered  the  Seneschal, 
staring. 

"Find  out,"  she  told  him  impressively,  her  eyes  on 


254  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


his,  and  calm  as  though  they  had  never  looked  upon 
such  sights  as  that  very  night  had  offered  them.  "If 
not  in  Grenoble,  certainly,  at  least,  somewhere  in  this 
Dauphiny  of  which  you  are  the  King's  Lord  Seneschal. 
Turn  the  whole  province  inside  out,  man,  but  find  the 
fellow.  Yours  is  the  power  to  do  it.  Do  it,  then,  and 
you  will  have  no  consequences  to  fear.  You  have  seen 
the  man?" 

"Ay,  I  have  seen  him.  I  remember  him;  and  his 
name,  I  bethink  me,  is  Rabecque." 

He  took  courage;  his  face  looked  less  dejected. 

"You  overlook  nothing,  madame,"  he  murmured. 
"You  are  truly  wonderful.  I  will  start  the  search  this 
very  night.  My  men  are  almost  all  at  Montelimar 
awaiting  my  commands.  I'll  dispatch  a  messenger 
with  orders  that  they  are  to  spread  themselves 
throughout  Dauphiny  upon  this  quest." 

The  door  opened,  and  Fortunio  entered.  He  was 
still  unwashed  and  terrible  to  look  upon,  all  blood- 
bespattered.  The  sight  of  him  drove  a  shudder 
through  Tressan.  The  Marquise  grew  solicitous. 

"How  is  your  wound,  Fortunio?"  was  her  first 
question. 

He  made  a  gesture  that  dismissed  the  matter. 

"It  is  nothing.  I  am  over  full-blooded,  and  if  I  am 
scratched,  I  bleed,  without  perceiving  it,  enough  to 
drain  another  man." 

"Here,  drink,  mon  capitaine"  she  urged  him,  very 
friendly,  filling  him  a  cup  with  her  own  hands.  "And 
you,  Marius?"  she  asked.  "Are  you  recovering 
strength?" 

"I  am  well,"  answered  Marius  sullenly.  His  defeat 
that  evening  had  left  him  glum  and  morose.  He  felt 


IN  THE  MOAT  255 

that  he  had  cut  a  sorry  figure  in  the  affair,  and  his 
vanity  was  wounded.  "I  deplore  I  had  so  little  share 
in  the  fight,"  he  muttered. 

"The  lustiest  fight  ever  I  or  any  man  beheld," 
swore  Fortunio.  "Dieu!  But  he  was  a  fighter,  that 
Monsieur  de  Garnache,  and  he  deserved  a  better  end 
than  drowning." 

"You  are  quite  sure  that  he  is  drowned?" 

Fortunio  replied  by  giving  his  reasons  for  that  con- 
clusion, and  they  convinced  both  the  Marquise  and 
her  son  —  indeed  they  had  never  deemed  it  possible 
that  the  Parisian  could  have  survived  that  awful  leap. 
The  Dowager  looked  at  Marius,  and  from  him  to  the 
captain. 

"  Do  you  think,  you  two,  that  you  will  be  fit  for  to- 
morrow's business?" 

"For  myself,"  laughed  Fortunio,  "I  am  ready  for  it 
now." 

"And  I  shall  be  when  I  have  rested,"  answered 
Marius  grimly. 

"Then  get  you  both  to  rest,  you  will  be  needing  it," 
she  bade  them. 

"And  I,  too,  madame,"  said  the  Seneschal,  bending 
over  the  hand  she  held  out  to  him.  "Good-night  to 
you  all."  He  would  have  added  a  word  to  wish  them 
luck  in  the  morrow's  venture;  but  for  the  life  of  him 
he  dared  not.  He  turned,  made  another  of  his  bows, 
and  rolled  out  of  the  room. 

Five  minutes  later  the  drawbridge  was  being  raised 
after  his  departure,  and  Fortunio  was  issuing  orders  to 
the  men  he  had  recalled  from  their  futile  search  to  go 
clear  the  guard-room  and  antechamber  of  the  North- 
ern Tower,  and  to  bear  the  dead  to  the  chapel,  which 


2$6  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


must  serve  as  a  mortuary  for  the  time.  That  done  he 
went  off  to  bed,  and  soon  after  the  lights  were  extin- 
guished in  Condillac;  and  save  for  Arsenio,  who  was 
on  guard,  sorely  perturbed  by  all  that  had  befallen  and 
marvelling  at  the  rashness  of  his  friend  "Battista" 
—  for  he  had  no  full  particulars  of  the  business  —  the 
place  was  wrapped  in  sleep. 

Had  they  been  less  sure  that  Garnache  was  drowned, 
maybe  they  had  slumbered  less  tranquilly  that  night 
at  Condillac.  Fortunio  had  been  shrewd  in  his  con- 
clusions, yet  a  trifle  hasty;  for  whilst,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  he  was  correct  is  assuming  that  the  Parisian  had 
not  crawled  out  of  the  moat  —  neither  at  the  point 
he  had  searched,  nor  elsewhere  —  yet  was  he  utterly 
wrong  to  assume  him  at  the  bottom  of  it. 

Garnache  had  gone  through  that  window  prepared 
to  leap  into  another  —  and,  he  hoped,  a  better  — 
world.  He  had  spun  round  twice  in  the  air  and  shot 
feet  foremost  through  the  chill  waters  of  the  moat,  and 
down  until  his  toes  came  in  contact  with  a  less  yielding 
substance,  yet  yielding  nevertheless.  Marvelling  that 
he  should  have  retained  until  now  his  senses,  he 
realized  betimes  that  he  was  touching  mud  —  that  he 
was  really  ankle  deep  in  it.  A  vigorous,  frantic  kick 
with  both  legs  at  once  released  him,  and  he  felt  him- 
self slowly  re-ascending  to  the  surface. 

It  has  been  often  said  that  a  drowning  man  in  his 
struggles  sees  his  whole  life  mirrored  before  him.  In 
the  instants  of  Garnache's  ascent  through  the  half- 
stagnant  waters  of  that  moat  he  had  reviewed  the 
entire  situation  and  determined  upon  the  course  he 
should  pursue.  When  he  reached  the  surface,  he  must 
see  to  it  that  he  broke  it  gently,  for  at  the  window 


IN  THE  MOAT 


above  were  sure  to  be  watchers,  looking  to  see  how  he 
had  fared.  Madame,  he  remembered,  had  sent  Tres- 
san  for  muskets.  If  he  had  returned  with  them  and 
they  should  perceive  him  from  above,  a  bullet  would 
be  sent  to  dispose  of  him,  and  it  were  a  pity  to  be  shot 
now  after  having  come  through  so  much. 

His  head  broke  the  surface  and  emerged  into  the 
chill  darkness  of  the  night.  He  took  a  deep  breath 
of  cold  but  very  welcome  air,  and  moving  his  arms 
gently  under  water,  he  swam  quietly,  not  to  the  edge 
of  the  moat  but  to  the  chateau  wall,  close  under  which 
he  thought  he  would  be  secure  from  observation.  He 
found  by  good  fortune  a  crevice  between  two  stones; 
he  did  not  see  it,  his  fingers  found  it  for  him  as  they 
groped  along  that  granite  surface.  He  clung  there  a 
moment  and  pondered  the  situation.  He  heard  voices 
above,  and  looking  up  he  saw  the  glare  of  light  through 
the  opening  he  had  battered. 

And  now  he  was  surprised  to  feel  new  vigour  run- 
ning through  him.  He  had  hurled  himself  from  that 
window  with  scarce  the  power  to  leap,  bathed  in 
perspiration  and  deeming  his  strength  utterly  spent. 
The  ice-cold  waters  of  the  moat  had  served,  it  would 
seem,  to  brace  him,  to  wash  away  his  fatigue,  and  to 
renew  his  energies.  His  mind  was  singularly  clear  and 
his  senses  rendered  superacute,  and  he  set  himself  to 
consider  what  he  had  best  do. 

Swim  to  the  edge  of  the  moat  and,  clambering  out, 
take  to  his  legs  was  naturally  the  first  impulse.  But, 
reflecting  upon  the  open  nature  of  the  ground,  he 
realized  that  that  must  mean  his  ruin.  Presently  they 
would  come  to  see  how  he  had  fared,  and  failing  to 
find  him  in  the  water  they  would  search  the  country 


258  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


round  about.  He  set  himself  in  their  place.  He  tried 
to  think  as  they  would  think,  the  better  that  he  might 
realize  how  they  would  act,  and  then  an  idea  came  to 
him  that  might  be  worth  heeding.  In  any  case  his 
situation  was  still  very  desperate;  on  that  score  he 
allowed  himself  no  illusions.  That  they  would  take 
his  drowning  for  granted,  and  never  come  to  satisfy 
themselves,  he  was  not  optimist  enough  to  assume. 

He  abandoned  his  grip  of  the  wall  and  began  to 
swim  gently  toward  the  eastern  angle.  If  they  came 
out,  they  must  lower  the  bridge;  he  would  place  him- 
self so  that  in  falling  it  should  cover  him  and  screen 
him  from  their  sight.  He  rounded  the  angle  of  the 
building,  and  now  the  friendly  cloud  that  had  hung 
across  the  moon  moved  by,  and  a  faint,  silver  radiance 
was  upon  the  water  under  his  eyes.  But  yonder,  ahead 
of  him,  something  black  lay  athwart  the  moat.  At 
once  he  knew  it  for  the  bridge.  It  was  down.  And  he 
had  the  explanation  in  that  he  remembered  that  the 
Lord  Seneschal  had  not  yet  left  Condillac.  It  mattered 
little  to  him  one  way  or  the  other.  The  bridge  was 
there,  and  he  made  the  best  of  it. 

A  few  swift,  silent  strokes  brought  him  to  it.  He 
hesitated  a  moment  before  venturing  into  the  dark- 
ness underneath;  then,  bethinking  him  that  it  was 
that  or  discovery,  he  passed  under.  He  made  for  the 
wall,  and  as  he  groped  along  he  found  a  chain  depend- 
ing and  reaching  down  into  the  water.  He  caught  at 
it  with  both  hands  and  hung  by  it  to  await  events. 

And  now,  for  the  first  time  that  night,  his  pulses 
really  quickened.  There  in  the  dark  he  waited,  and 
the  moments  that  sped  seemed  very  long  to  him,  and 
they  were  very  anxious.  He  had  no  good  sword  where- 


IN  THE  MOAT 


with  to  defend  himself  were  he  attacked,  no  good, 
solid  ground  on  which  to  take  his  stand.  If  he  were 
discovered,  he  was  helpless,  at  their  mercy,  to  shoot,  or 
take,  or  beat  to  death  as  best  they  listed.  And  so  he 
waited,  his  pulses  throbbing,  his  breath  coming  short 
and  fast.  The  cold  water  that  had  invigorated  him 
some  minutes  ago  was  numbing  him  now,  and  seemed 
to  be  freezing  his  courage  as  it  froze  the  blood  in  his 
veins,  the  very  marrow  in  his  bones. 

Presently  his  ears  caught  a  rush  of  feet,  a  sound  of 
voices,  and  Fortunio's  raised  above  the  others.  Heavy 
steps  rang  on  the  bridge  over  his  head,  and  the  thud  of 
their  fall  was  like  thunder  to  the  man  beneath.  A 
crimson  splash  of  light  fell  on  the  moat  on  either  side 
of  him.  The  fellow  on  the  bridge  had  halted.  Then 
the  steps  went  on.  The  light  flared  this  way  and  that, 
and  Garnache  almost  trembled,  expecting  at  every 
moment  that  its  rays  would  penetrate  the  spot  where 
he  was  hanging  and  reveal  him  cowering  there  like  a 
frightened  water-rat.  But  the  man  moved  on,  and  his 
light  flared  no  longer. 

Then  others  followed  him.  Garnache  heard  the 
sounds  of  their  search.  So  overwrought  was  he  that 
there  was  a  moment  when  he  thought  of  swimming  to 
the  edge  and  making  across  the  country  to  the  north 
while  they  were  hunting  the  meadows  to  the  east;  but 
he  repressed  the  impulse  and  stayed  on.  An  eternity 
did  it  seem  before  those  men  returned  and  marched 
once  more  over  his  head.  A  further  eternity  was  it 
until  the  clatter  of  hoofs  on  the  courtyard  stones  and 
their  thunder  on  the  planks  above  him  brought  him 
the  news  that  Tressan  was  riding  home.  He  heard  the 
hoofs  quicken,  and  their  loud  rattle  on  the  road  that 


26o  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


led  down  to  the  Isere,  a  half-mile  away;  and  then, 
when  the  hoof-beats  grew  more  distant,  there  came 
again  the  echo  of  voices  up  above. 

Was  it  not  over  yet?  Dear  God!  would  it  never 
end?  He  felt  that  a  few  moments  more  of  this  im- 
mersion and  he  should  be  done  for  utterly;  his  numb- 
ness must  rob  him  of  the  power  to  cross  the  moat. 

Suddenly  the  first  welcome  sound  he  had  heard 
that  night  came  to  his  ears.  Chains  creaked,  hinges 
groaned,  and  the  great  black  pall  above  him  began 
gradually  to  rise.  Faster  it  went,  till,  at  last,  it  fell 
back  into  position,  flat  with  the  wall  of  the  chateau, 
and  such  little  light  as  there  was  from  the  moon  was 
beating  down  upon  his  frozen  face. 

He  let  the  chain  go,  and,  with  strokes  swift  and 
silent  as  he  could  contrive,  he  crossed  the  water.  He 
clambered  up  the  bank,  almost  bereft  of  strength.  A 
moment  he  crouched  there  listening.  Had  he  moved 
too  soon  ?  Had  he  been  incautious  ? 

Nothing  stirred  behind  him  to  confirm  his  fears. 
He  crept  softly  across  the  hard  ground  of  the  road 
where  he  had  landed.  Then,  when  the  yielding,  silent 
turf  was  under  his  feet,  he  gave  not  another  thought 
for  his  numbness,  but  started  to  run  as  a  man  runs  in 
a  nightmare,  so  little  did  the  speed  of  his  movements 
match  the  pace  of  his  desire  to  set  a  distance  between 
himself  and  Condillac. 


CHAPTER  XIX 


THROUGH  THE  NIGHT 

IT  wanted  something  over  an  hour  to  midnight 
when  Monsieur  de  Garnache  started  out  in  his 
sodden  clothes  to  run  from  Condillac.  He  bore  away 
to  the  north,  and  continued  running  until  he  had 
covered  a  mile  or  so,  when  perforce  he  must  slacken 
his  pace  lest  presently  he  should  have  to  give  way  to 
utter  exhaustion.  He  trudged  on  bravely  thereafter, 
at  a  good,  swinging  pace,  realizing  that  in  moving 
briskly  lay  his  salvation  from  such  ill  effects  as  might 
otherwise  attend  his  too  long  immersion.  His  run  had 
set  a  pleasant  glow  upon  his  skin  and  seemed  to  have 
thawed  the  frozen  condition  of  his  joints.  Yet  he 
could  not  disguise  from  himself  that  he  was  sorely 
worn  by  that  night's  happenings,  and  that,  if  he 
would  reach  his  goal,  he  must  carefully  husband  such 
strength  as  yet  remained  him. 

That  goal  of  his  was  Voiron,  some  four  leagues 
distant  to  the  north,  where,  at  the  inn  of  the  Beau 
Paon,  his  man,  Rabecque,  should  be  lodged,  ready  for 
his  coming  at  any  time.  Once  already,  when  repairing 
to  Condillac,  he  had  travelled  by  that  road,  and  it  was 
so  direct  that  there  seemed  scant  fear  of  his  mistak- 
ing it.  On  he  plodded  through  the  night,  his  way 
lighted  for  him  by  the  crescent  moon,  the  air  so  still 
that,  despite  his  wet  garments,  being  warmed  as  he 
was  by  his  brisk  movements,  he  never  felt  the  cold 
of  it. 


262  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


He  had  overheard  enough  of  what  had  been  said  by 
Marius  to  Valerie  to  understand  the  business  that  was 
afoot  for  the  morrow,  and  he  doubted  him  that  he  had 
not  sufficiently  injured  the  Dowager's  son  to  make  him 
refrain  from  or  adjourn  his  murderous  ride  across  the 
border  into  Savoy. 

Garnache's  purpose  now  was  to  reach  Voiron,  there 
to  snatch  a  brief  rest,  and  then,  equipped  anew  to  set 
out  with  his  man  for  La  Rochette  and  anticipate  the 
fell  plans  of  Marius  and  Fortunio. 

He  might  have  experienced  elation  at  his  almost 
miraculous  escape  and  at  the  circumstance  that  he  was 
still  at  large  to  carry  this  duel  with  the  Condillacs  to  a 
fitting  finish,  were  it  not  for  the  reflection  that  but  for 
his  besetting  sin  of  hastiness  he  might  now  be  travel- 
ling in  dry  garments  toward  La  Rochette,  with  made- 
moiselle beside  him.  Once  again  that  rash  temper  of 
his  had  marred  an  enterprise  that  was  on  the  point  of 
succeeding.  And  yet,  even  as  he  regretted  his  rash- 
ness, rage  stirred  him  again  at  the  thought  of  Marius 
crushing  that  slender  shape  against  him  and  seeking 
to  force  his  odious  kisses  upon  her  pure,  immaculate 
lips.  And  then  the  thought  of  her,  left  behind  at  Con- 
dillac  at  the  mercy  of  Marius  and  that  she-devil  the 
Marquise,  and  the  fears  that  of  a  sudden  leapt  up  in  his 
mind,  brought  him  to  a  standstill,  as  though  he  were 
contemplating  the  incomparable  folly  of  a  return. 
He  beat  his  hands  together  for  a  moment  in  a  frenzy 
of  anguish;  he  threw  back  his  head  and  raised  his  eyes 
to  the  sky  above  with  a  burst  of  imprecations  on  his 
lips.  And  then  reflection  brought  him  peace.  No,  no; 
they  dare  offer  her  no  hurt.  To  do  so  must  irrevocably 
lose  them  La  Vauvraye;  and  it  was  their  covetousness 


THROUGH  THE  NIGHT  263 


had  made  them  villains.  Upon  that  covetousness  did 
their  villainy  rest,  and  he  need  fear  from  them  no 
wanton  ruthlessness  that  should  endanger  their  chance 
of  profit. 

He  trudged  on,  reassured.  He  had  been  a  fool  so  to 
give  way  to  fear;  as  great  a  fool  as  he  had  been  when 
he  had  laid  hands  on  Marius  to  quell  his  excessive 
amorousness.  Dieu!  Was  he  bewitched?  What  ailed 
him  ?  Again  he  paused  there  in  the  night  to  think  the 
situation  out. 

A  dozen  thoughts,  all  centring  about  Valerie,  came 
crowding  in  upon  his  brain,  till  in  the  end  a  great 
burst  of  laughter  —  the  laughter  of  a  madman  almost, 
eerie  and  terrific  as  it  rang  upon  the  silent  night  — 
broke  from  his  parted  lips.  That  brief  moment  of 
introspection  had  revealed  him  to  himself,  and  the 
revelation  had  fetched  that  peal  of  mocking  laughter 
from  him. 

He  realized  now,  at  last,  that  not  because  the  Queen 
had  ordered  him  to  procure  Mademoiselle  de  La 
Vauvraye's  enlargement  had  he  submitted  to  assume 
a  filthy  travesty,  to  set  his  neck  in  jeopardy,  to  play 
the  lackey  and  the  spy.  It  was  because  something  in 
Valerie's  eyes,  something  in  her  pure,  lily  face  had 
moved  him  to  it;  and  simultaneously  had  come  the 
thought  of  the  relation  in  which  she  stood  to  that 
man  at  La  Rochette  whose  life  he  now  sought  to  save 
for  her,  and  it  had  stabbed  him  with  a  bitterness  no 
misfortune,  no  failure  yet  had  brought  him. 

He  trudged  on,  knowing  himself  for  what  he  was  — 
a  fool  who,  after  close  upon  forty  years  of  a  strenuous 
life  in  which  no  petticoat  had  played  a  part,  was  come 
under  the  spell  of  a  pair  of  innocent  eyes  belonging 


264  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


to  a  child  almost  young  enough  to  have  been  his 
daughter. 

He  despised  himself  a  little  for  his  weakness;  he 
despised  himself  for  his  apostasy  from  the  faith  that 
had  governed  his  life  —  the  faith  to  keep  himself  im- 
mune from  the  folly  to  which  womanhood  had  driven 
so  many  a  stout  man. 

And  yet,  mock  himself,  despise  himself  as  he  would, 
a  great  tenderness,  a  great  desire  grew  strong  in  his 
soul  that  night  as  he  trudged  on  toward  distant 
Voiron.  Mile  after  mile  her  image  kept  him  company, 
and  once,  when  he  had  left  Voreppe  behind  him,  the 
greater  portion  of  his  journey  done,  some  devil  whis- 
pered in  his  ear  that  he  was  weary;  that  he  would 
be  over-weary  on  the  morrow  for  any  ride  to  La 
Rochette.  He  had  done  all  that  mortal  man  could 
do;  let  him  rest  to-morrow  whilst  Marius  and  For- 
tunio  accomplished  by  Florimond  what  the  fever  had 
begun. 

A  cold  perspiration  broke  on  him  as  he  wrestled 
with  that  grim  temptation.  Valerie  was  his;  she  be- 
longed to  him  by  the  right  of  dangers  shared;  never 
had  mother  in  her  labours  been  nearer  death  for  the  off- 
spring's sake  than  had  he  for  Valerie  during  the  days 
that  were  sped  and  the  hours  that  were  but  gone.  She 
belonged  to  him  by  the  title  of  those  dangers  he  had 
been  through.  What  had  Florimond  done  to  establish 
his  claim  to  her?  He  had  remained  absent  during  long 
years,  a-warring  in  a  foreign  land.  With  how  many 
banal  loves  might  not  the  fellow  in  that  time  have 
strewn  his  soldier's  path!  Garnache  knew  well  how 
close  does  Cupid  stalk  in  the  wake  of  Mars,  knew  well 
the  way  of  these  gay  soldiers  and  the  lightness  of  their 
loves. 


THROUGH  THE  NIGHT  265 


Was,  then,  this  fellow  to  come  now  and  claim  her, 
when  perils  were  past,  when  there  was  naught  left  to 
do  but  lead  her  to  the  altar?  Could  he  be  worthy  of 
such  a  pearl  of  womanhood,  this  laggard  who,  be- 
cause a  fever  touched  him,  sat  him  down  in  an  inn 
within  a  few  hours'  ride  of  her  to  rest  him,  as  though 
the  world  held  no  such  woman  as  Valerie? 

And  she,  herself,  by  what  ties  was  she  bound  to 
him?  By  the  ties  of  an  old  promise,  given  at  an  age 
when  she  knew  not  what  love  meant.  He  had  talked 
of  it  with  her,  and  he  knew  how  dispassionately  she 
awaited  Florimond's  return.  Florimond  might  be 
betrothed  to  her  —  her  father  and  his  had  encom- 
passed that  between  them  —  but  no  lover  of  hers  was 
he. 

Thus  far  did  his  thoughts  journey,  and  temptation 
gripped  him  ever  more  and  more  strongly.  And  then 
his  manhood  and  his  honour  awoke  with  a  shudder,  as 
awakens  a  man  from  an  ugly  dream.  What  manner 
of  fool  was  he?  he  asked  himself  again.  Upon  what 
presumptions  did  he  base  his  silly  musings?  Did  he 
suppose  that  even  were  there  no  Florimond,  it  would 
be  left  for  a  harsh,  war-worn  old  greybeard  such  as  he 
to  awaken  tenderness  in  the  bosom  of  that  child? 
The  tenderness  of  friendship  perhaps  —  she  had  con- 
fessed to  that;  but  the  tenderness  of  her  sweet  love 
must  be  won  by  a  younger,  comelier  man. 

If  love  had  indeed  touched  him  at  last,  let  him  be 
worthy  of  it  and  of  her  who  inspired  it.  Let  him  strain 
every  sinew  in  her  service,  asking  no  guerdon;  let  him 
save  the  life  of  the  man  to  whom  she  was  affianced;  let 
him  save  her  from  the  clutches  of  the  Marquise  de 
Condillac  and  her  beautiful,  unscrupulous  son. 


266  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


He  put  his  folly  from  him  and  went  on,  seeking  to 
hold  his  mind  to  the  planning  of  his  to-morrow's 
journey  and  its  business.  He  had  no  means  to  know 
that  at  that  very  hour  Valerie  was  on  her  knees  by 
her  little  white  bed,  in  the  Northern  Tower  of  Con- 
dillac,  praying  for  the  repose  of  the  soul  of  Monsieur 
de  Garnache  —  the  bravest  gentleman,  the  noblest 
friend  she  had  ever  known.  For  she  accounted  him 
dead,  and  she  thought  with  horror  of  his  body  lying  in 
the  slime  under  the  cold  waters  of  the  moat  beneath 
the  window  of  her  antechamber.  A  change  seemed  to 
have  come  upon  her.  Her  soul  was  numb,  her  courage 
seemed  dead,  and  little  care  had  she  in  that  hour  of 
what  might  betide  her  now. 

Florimond  was  coming,  she  remembered:  coming  to 
wed  her.  Ah,  well!  It  mattered  little,  since  Monsieur 
de  Garnache  was  dead  —  as  though  it  could  have 
mattered  had  he  been  living! 

Three  hours  of  his  long  striding  brought  Garnache 
at  last  to  Voiron,  and  the  echo  of  his  footsteps  rang 
through  the  silent  streets  and  scared  a  stray  cat  or  two 
that  were  preying  out  of  doors.  There  was  no  watch 
in  the  little  township  and  no  lights,  but  by  the  moon's 
faint  glimmer  Garnache  sought  the  inn  of  the  Beau 
Paon,  and  found  it  at  the  end  of  a  little  wandering. 
A  gaudy  peacock,  with  tail  spread  wide,  was  the  sign 
above  the  door  on  which  he  thumped  and  kicked  as  if 
he  would  have  beaten  it  down. 

It  opened  after  some  delay,  and  a  man,  half  clad, 
candle  in  hand,  a  night-cap  on  his  hoary  locks,  showed 
an  angry  face  at  the  opening. 

At  sight  of  the  gaunt,  bedraggled  figure  that  craved 
admittance,  the  landlord  would  have  shut  the  door 


THROUGH  THE  NIGHT  267 


again,  fearing  that  he  had  to  do  with  some  wild  bandit 
from  the  hills.  But  Garnache  thrust  his  foot  in  the  way. 

"There  is  a  man  named  Rabecque,  from  Paris, 
lodging  here.  I  must  have  instant  speech  with  him," 
said  he;  and  his  words,  together  with  the  crisp,  com- 
manding tones  in  which  they  were  uttered,  had  their 
effect  upon  the  host. 

Rabecque  had  been  playing  the  great  lord  during 
the  week  he  had  spent  at  Voiron,  and  had  known  how 
to  command  a  certain  deference  and  regard.  That  this 
tatterdemalion,  with  the  haughty  voice,  should  de- 
mand to  see  him  at  that  hour  of  the  night,  with  such 
scant  unconcern  of  how  far  he  might  incommode 
the  great  Monsieur  Rabecque,  earned  for  him  too  a 
certain  measure  of  regard,  though  still  alloyed  with 
some  suspicion. 

The  landlord  bade  him  enter.  He  did  not  know 
whether  Monsieur  Rabecque  would  forgive  him  for 
being  disturbed;  he  could  not  say  whether  Monsieur 
Rabecque  would  consent  to  see  this  visitor  at  such  an 
hour;  very  probably  he  would  not.  Still,  monsieur 
might  enter. 

Garnache  cut  him  short  before  he  had  half  done, 
announced  his  name  and  bade  him  convey  it  to 
Rabecque.  The  alacrity  with  which  the  lackey  stirred 
from  his  bed  upon  hearing  who  it  was  that  had  arrived 
impressed  the  host  not  a  little,  but  not  half  so  much  as 
it  impressed  him  presently  to  observe  the  deference 
with  which  this  great  Monsieur  Rabecque  of  Paris 
confronted  the  scarecrow  below  stairs  when  he  was 
brought  into  its  presence. 

"You  are  safe  and  sound,  monsieur?"  he  cried,  in 
deferential  joy. 


258  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


"Aye,  by  a  miracle,  mon  fils"  Garnache  answered 
him,  with  a  short  laugh.  "Help  me  to  bed;  then  bring 
me  a  cup  of  spiced  wine.  I  have  swum  a  moat  and 
done  other  wonders  in  these  clothes." 

The  host  and  Rabecque  bustled  now  to  minister  to 
his  wants  between  them,  and  when,  jaded  and  worn, 
Garnache  lay  at  last  between  good-smelling  sheets 
with  the  feeling  in  him  that  he  was  like  to  sleep  until 
the  day  of  judgment,  he  issued  his  final  orders. 

"Awake  me  at  daybreak,  Rabecque,"  said  he 
drowsily.  "We  must  be  stirring  then.  Have  horse 
ready  and  clothes  for  me.  I  shall  need  you  to  wash 
me  clean  and  shave  me  and  make  me  what  I  was  be- 
fore your  tricks  and  dyes  turned  me  into  what  I  have 
been  this  week  and  more.  Take  away  the  light.  At 
daybreak!  Don't  let  me  sleep  beyond  that  as  you 
value  your  place  with  me.  We  shall  have  brisk  work 
to-morrow.  At  —  daybreak  —  Rabecque!" 


CHAPTER  XX 


FLORIMOND  DE  CONDILLAC 

IT  was  noon  of  the  next  day  when  two  horsemen 
gained  the  heights  above  La  Rochette  and  paused 
to  breathe  their  nags  and  take  a  survey  of  the  little 
township  in  the  plain  at  their  feet.  One  of  these  was 
Monsieur  de  Garnache,  the  other  was  his  man  Ra- 
becque.  But  it  was  no  longer  the  travestied  Gar- 
nache that  Condillac  had  known  as  "  Battista"  during 
the  past  days,  it  was  that  gentleman  as  he  had  been 
when  first  he  presented  himself  at  the  chateau.  Ra- 
becque  had  shaved  him,  and  by  means  of  certain  un- 
guents had  cleansed  his  skin  and  hair  of  the  dyes  with 
which  he  had  earlier  overlaid  them. 

That  metamorphosis,  of  itself,  was  enough  to  set 
Garnache  in  a  good  humour;  he  felt  himself  again, 
and  the  feeling  gave  him  confidence.  His  mustachios 
bristled  as  fiercely  as  of  old,  his  skin  was  clear  and 
healthy,  and  his  dark  brown  hair  showed  ashen  at  the 
temples.  He  was  becomingly  arrayed  in  a  suit  of  dark 
brown  camlet,  with  rows  of  close-set  gold  buttons 
running  up  his  hanging  sleeves;  a  leather  jerkin  hid 
much  of  his  finery,  and  his  great  boots  encased  his 
legs.  He  wore  a  brown  hat,  with  a  tallish  crown  and 
a  red  feather,  and  Rabecque  carried  his  cloak  for  him, 
for  the  persistent  Saint  Martin's  summer  rendered 
that  day  of  November  rather  as  one  of  early  autumn. 

A  flood  of  sunshine  descended  from  a  cloudless  sky 
to  drench  the  country  at  their  feet,  and  all  about  them 


270  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


the  trees  preserved  a  green  that  was  but  little  touched 
by  autumnal  browning. 

Awhile  he  paused  there  on  the  heights;  then  he 
gave  his  horse  a  touch  of  the  spur,  and  they  started 
down  the  winding  road  that  led  into  La  Rochette.  A 
half-hour  later  they  were  riding  under  the  porte- 
cochere  of  the  inn  of  the  Black  Boar.  Of  the  ostler  who 
hastened  forward  to  take  their  reins  Monsieur  de 
Garnache  inquired  if  the  Marquis  de  Condillac  were 
lodged  there.  He  was  answered  in  the  affirmative,  and 
he  got  down  at  once  from  his  horse.  Indeed,  but  for 
the  formality  of  the  thing,  he  might  have  spared 
himself  the  question,  for  lounging  about  the  court- 
yard were  a  score  of  stalwart  weather-tanned  fellows, 
whose  air  and  accoutrements  proclaimed  them  sol- 
diers. It  required  little  shrewdness  to  guess  in  them  the 
personal  followers  of  the  Marquis,  the  remainder  of 
the  little  troop  that  had  followed  the  young  seigneur 
to  the  wars  when,  some  three  years  ago,  he  had  set  out 
from  Condillac. 

Garnache  gave  orders  for  the  horses  to  be  cared  for, 
and  bade  Rabecque  get  himself  fed  in  the  common- 
room.  Heralded  by  the  host,  the  Parisian  then 
mounted  the  stairs  to  Monsieur  de  Condillac's  apart- 
ments. 

The  landlord  led  the  way  to  the  inn's  best  room, 
turned  the  handle,  and,  throwing  wide  the  door,  stood 
aside  for  Monsieur  de  Garnache  to  enter. 

From  within  the  chamber  came  the  sounds  of  a 
scuffle,  a  man's  soft  laugh,  and  a  girl's  softer  inter- 
cession. 

"Let  me  go,  monsieur.  Of  your  pity,  let  me  go. 
Some  one  is  coming." 


FLORIMOND  DE  CONDILLAC 


"And  what  care  I  who  comes?"  answered  a  voice 
that  seemed  oppressed  by  laughter. 

Garnache  strode  into  the  chamber  —  spacious  and 
handsomely  furnished  as  became  the  best  room  of  the 
Auberge  du  Sanglier  Noir  —  to  find  a  meal  spread  on 
the  table,  steaming  with  an  odour  promising  of  good 
things,  but  neglected  by  the  guest  for  the  charms  of 
the  serving-wench,  whose  waist  he  had  imprisoned. 
As  Garnache's  tall  figure  loomed  before  him  he  let  the 
girl  go  and  turned  a  half-laughing,  half-startled  face 
upon  the  intruder. 

"Who  the  devil  may  you  be?"  he  inquired,  and  a 
brown  eye,  rakish  and  roving  in  its  glance,  played 
briskly  over  the  Parisian,  whilst  Garnache  himself 
returned  the  compliment,  and  calmly  surveyed  this 
florid  gentleman  of  middle  height  with  the  fair  hair 
and  regular  features. 

The  girl  scurried  by  and  darted  from  the  room, 
dodging  the  smiting  hand  which  the  host  raised  as  she 
flew  past  him.  The  Parisian  felt  his  gorge  rising.  Was 
this  the  sort  of  fever  that  had  kept  Monsieur  le  Mar- 
quis at  La  Rochette,  whilst  mademoiselle  was  suffer- 
ing in  durance  at  Condillac?  His  last  night's  jealous 
speculations  touching  a  man  he  did  not  know  had 
leastways  led  him  into  no  exaggeration.  He  found 
just  such  a  man  as  he  had  pictured  —  a  lightly-lov- 
ing, pleasure- taking  roysterer,  with  never  a  thought 
beyond  the  amusement  which  the  hour  afforded  him. 

With  curling  lip  Garnache  bowed  stiffly,  and  in  a 
cold,  formal  voice  he  announced  himself. 

"My  name  is  Martin  Marie  Rigobert  de  Garnache. 
I  am  an  emissary  dispatched  from  Paris  by  her 
Majesty  the  Queen-mother  to  procure  the  enlarge- 


SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


ment  of  Mademoiselle  de  La  Vauvraye  from  the 
durance  in  which  she  is  held  by  madame  y<5^r  step- 
mother." 

The  pleasant  gentleman's  eyebrows  went  up;  a. 
smile  that  was  almost  insolent  broke  on  his  face. 

"That  being  so,  monsieur,  why  the  devil  are  you 
here?" 

"I  am  here,  monsieur,"  answered  him  Garnache, 
throwing  back  his  head,  his  nostrils  quivering,  "be- 
cause you  are  not  at  Condillac." 

The  tone  was  truculent  to  the  point  of  defiance,  for 
despite  the  firm  resolve  he  had  taken  last  night  never 
again  to  let  his  temper  overmaster  him,  already  Gar- 
nache's  self-control  was  slipping  away. 

The  Marquis  noted  the  tone,  and  observed  the  man. 
In  their  way  he  liked  both;  in  their  way  he  disliked 
both.  But  he  clearly  saw  that  this  peppery  gentleman 
must  be  treated  less  cavalierly,  or  trouble  would 
come  of  it.  So  he  waved  him  gracefully  to  the  table, 
where  a  brace  of  flagons  stood  amid  the  steaming 
viands. 

"You  will  dine  with  me,  monsieur,"  said  he,  the  ut- 
most politeness  marking  his  utterance  now.  "I  take 
it  that  since  you  have  come  here  in  quest  of  me  you 
have  something  to  tell  me.  Shall  we  talk  as  we  eat?  I 
detest  a  lonely  meal." 

The  florid  gentleman's  tone  and  manner  were 
mollifying  in  the  extreme.  Garnache  had  risen  early 
and  ridden  far;  the  smell  of  the  viands  had  quickened 
an  appetite  already  very  keen;  moreover,  since  he  and 
this  gentleman  were  to  be  allies,  it  was  as  well  they 
should  not  begin  by  quarrelling. 

He  bowed  less  stiffly,  expressed  his  willingness  and 


FLORIMOND  DE  CONDILLAC 


his  thanks,  laid  hat  and  whip  and  cloak  aside,  un- 
buckled and  set  down  his  sword,  and,  that  done,  took 
at  table  the  place  which  his  host  himself  prepared 
him. 

Garnache  took  more  careful  stock  of  the  Marquis 
now.  He  found  much  to  like  in  his  countenance.  It 
was  frank  and  jovial;  obviously  that  of  a  sensualist, 
but,  leastways,  an  honest  sensualist.  He  was  dressed 
in  black,  as  became  a  man  who  mourned  his  father, 
yet  with  a  striking  richness  of  material,  whilst  his 
broad  collar  of  fine  point  and  the  lace  cuffs  of  his 
doublet  were  worth  a  fortune. 

What  time  they  ate  Monsieur  de  Garnache  told  of 
his  journey  from  Paris  and  of  his  dealings  with  Tres- 
san  and  his  subsequent  adventures  at  Condillac.  He 
dwelt  passingly  upon  the  manner  in  which  they  had 
treated  him,  and  found  it  difficult  to  choose  words  to 
express  the  reason  for  his  returning  in  disguise  to  play 
the  knight-errant  to  Valerie.  He  passed  on  to  speak  of 
last  night's  happenings  and  of  his  escape.  Through- 
out, the  Marquis  heard  him  with  a  grave  countenance 
and  a  sober,  attentive  glance,  yet,  when  he  had  fin- 
ished a  smile  crept  round  the  sensual  lips. 

"The  letter  that  I  had  at  Milan  prepared  me  for 
some  such  trouble  as  this,"  said  he,  and  Garnache  was 
amazed  at  the  lightness  of  his  tone,  just  as  he  had  been 
amazed  to  see  the  fellow  keep  his  countenance  at 
the  narrative  of  mademoiselle's  position.  "I  guessed 
that  my  beautiful  stepmother  intended  me  some  such 
scurviness  from  the  circumstance  of  her  having  kept 
me  in  ignorance  of  my  father's  death.  But  frankly, 
sir,  your  tale  by  far  outstrips  my  wildest  imaginings. 
You  have  behaved  very  —  very  bravely  in  this  affair. 


274  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


You  seem,  in  fact,  to  have  taken  a  greater  interest  in 
Mademoiselle  de  La  Vauvraye's  enlargement  than 
the  Queen  could  have  a  right  to  expect  of  you."  And 
he  smiled,  a  world  of  suggestion  in  his  eyes.  Garnache 
sat  back  in  his  chair  and  stared  at  the  man. 

"This  levity,  monsieur,  on  such  a  subject,  leaves 
me  thunderstruck,"  he  said  at  last. 

"Triable!"  laughed  the  other.  "You  are  too  prone, 
after  your  trials,  to  view  its  tragic  rather  than  its 
comic  side.  Forgive  me  if  I  am  smitten  only  with  the 
humour  of  the  thing." 

"The  humour  of  the  thing!"  gurgled  Garnache,  his 
eyes  starting  from  his  head.  Then  out  leapt  that 
temper  of  his  like  an  eager  hound  that  has  been 
suddenly  unleashed.  He  brought  down  his  clenched 
hand  upon  the  table,  caught  in  passing  a  flagon,  and 
sent  it  crashing  to  the  floor.  If  there  was  a  table  near 
at  hand  when  his  temper  went,  he  never  failed  to 
treat  it  so. 

"Par  la  mort  Dieul  monsieur,  you  see  but  the  hu- 
mour of  it,  do  you?  And  what  of  that  poor  child  who 
is  lying  there,  suffering  this  incarceration  because  of 
her  fidelity  to  a  promise  given  you?" 

The  statement  was  hardly  fully  accurate.  But  it 
served  its  purpose.  The  other's  face  became  instantly 
grave. 

"Calm  yourself,  I  beg,  monsieur,"  he  cried,  raising 
a  soothing  hand.  "I  have  offended  you  somewhere; 
that  is  plain.  There  is  something  here  that  I  do  not 
altogether  understand.  You  say  that  Valerie  has 
suffered  on  account  of  a  promise  given  me?  To  what 
are  you  referring?" 

"They  hold  her  a  prisoner,  monsieur,  because  they 


FLORIMOND  DE  CONDILLAC 


wish  to  wed  her  to  Marius,"  answered  Garnache, 
striving  hard  to  cool  his  anger. 

"Parfaitement!  That  much  I  understood." 

"Well,  then,  monsieur,  is  the  rest  not  plain?  Be- 
cause she  is  betrothed  to  you — "  He  paused.  He 
saw,  at  last,  that  he  was  stating  something  not  alto- 
gether accurate.  But  the  other  took  his  meaning 
there  and  then,  lay  back  in  his  chair,  and  burst  out 
laughing. 

The  blood  hummed  through  Garnache's  head  as  he 
tightened  his  lips  and  watched  this  gentleman  indulge 
his  inexplicable  mirth.  Surely  Monsieur  de  Condillac 
was  possessed  of  the  keenest  sense  of  humour  in  all 
France.  He  laughed  with  a  will,  and  Garnache  sent  up 
a  devout  prayer  that  the  laugh  might  choke  him.  The 
noise  of  it  filled  the  hostelry. 

"Sir,"  said  Garnache,  with  an  ever-increasing  tart- 
ness, "there is  a  by-word  has  it  'Much  laughter, 
little  wit.'  In  confidence  won,  is  that  your  case,  mon- 
sieur?" 

The  other  looked  at  him  soberly  a  moment,  then 
went  off  again. 

"Monsieur,  monsieur!"  he  gasped,  "you'll  be  the 
death  of  me.  For  the  love  of  Heaven  look  less  fierce. 
Is  it  my  fault  that  I  must  laugh?  The  folly  of  it  all  is 
so  colossal.  Three  years  from  home,  yet  there  is  a 
woman  keeps  faithful  and  holds  to  a  promise  given  for 
her.  Come,  monsieur,  you  who  have  seen  the  world, 
you  must  agree  that  there  is  in  this  something  that  is 
passing  singular,  extravagantly  amusing.  My  poor 
little  Valerie!"  he  spluttered  through  his  half-checked 
mirth,  "does  she  wait  for  me  still?  does  she  count  me 
still  betrothed  to  her?  And  because  of  that,  says  'No' 


276  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


to  brother  Marius!  Death  of  my  life!  I  shall  die  of 
it." 

"I  have  a  notion  that  you  may,  monsieur,"  rasped 
Garnache's  voice,  and  with  it  rasped  Garnache's  chair 
upon  the  boards.  He  had  risen,  and  he  was  confront- 
ing his  merry  host  very  fiercely,  white  to  the  lips,  his 
eyes  aflame.  There  was  no  mistaking  his  attitude,  no 
mistaking  his  words. 

"Eh?"  gasped  the  other,  recovering  himself  at  last 
to  envisage  what  appeared  to  develop  into  a  serious 
situation. 

"Monsieur,"  said  Garnache,  his  voice  very  cold, 
"do  I  understand  that  you  no  longer  intend  to  carry 
out  your  engagement  and  wed  Mademoiselle  de  La 
Vauvraye?" 

A  dull  flush  spread  upon  the  Marquis's  face.  He 
rose  too,  and  across  the  table  he  confronted  his  guest, 
his  mien  haughty,  his  eyes  imperious. 

"I  thought,  monsieur,"  said  he,  with  a  great 
dignity,  "I  thought  when  I  invited  you  to  sit  at  my 
table  that  your  business  was  to  serve  me,  however 
little  I  might  be  conscious  of  having  merited  the 
honour.  It  seems  instead  that  you  are  come  hither  to 
affront  me.  You  are  my  guest,  monsieur.  Let  me  beg 
that  you  will  depart  before  I  resent  a  question  on  a 
matter  which  concerns  myself  alone." 

The  man  was  right,  and  Garnache  was  wrong.  He 
had  no  title  to  take  up  the  affairs  of  Mademoiselle  de 
La  Vauvraye.  But  he  was  past  reason  now,  and  he 
was  not  the  man  to  brook  haughtiness,  however 
courteously  it  might  be  cloaked.  He  eyed  the  Mar- 
quis's flushed  face  across  the  board,  and  his  lip 
curled. 


FLORIMOND  DE  CONDILLAC  277 


"Monsieur,"  said  he,  "I  take  your  meaning  very 
fully.  Half  a  word  with  me  is  as  good  as  a  whole 
sentence  with  another.  You  have  dubbed  me  in 
polite  phrases  an  impertinent.  That  I  am  not;  and  I 
resent  the  imputation." 

"Oh,  that!"  said  the  Marquis,  with  a  half-laugh 
and  a  shrug.  "If  you  resent  it  — "  His  smile  and  his 
gesture  made  the  rest  plain. 

"Exactly,  monsieur,"  was  Garnache's  answer. 
"But  I  do  not  fight  sick  men." 

Florimond's  brows  grew  wrinkled,  his  eyes  puzzled. 

"Sick  men!"  he  echoed.  "Awhile  ago,  monsieur, 
you  appeared  to  cast  a  doubt  upon  my  sanity.  Is  it  a 
case  of  the  drunkard  who  thinks  all  the  world  drunk 
but  himself?" 

Garnache  gazed  at  him.  That  doubt  he  had  enter- 
tained grew  now  into  something  like  assurance. 

"I  know  not  whether  it  is  the  fever  makes  your 
tongue  run  so  — "he  began,  when  the  other  broke  in, 
a  sudden  light  of  understanding  in  his  eyes. 

"You  are  at  fault,"  he  cried.  "I  have  no  fever." 

"But  then  your  letter  to  Condillac?"  demanded 
Garnache,  lost  now  in  utter  amazement. 

"What  of  it?  I'll  swear  I  never  said  I  had  a  fever." 

"I'll  swear  you  did." 

"You  give  me  the  lie,  then?" 

But  Garnache  waved  his  hands  as  if  he  implored 
the  other  to  have  done  with  giving  and  taking  offence. 
There  was  some  misunderstanding  somewhere,  he 
realized,  and  sheer  astonishment  had  cooled  his  anger. 
His  only  aim  now  was  to  have  this  obscure  thing  made 
clear. 

"No,  no,"  he  cried.  " I  am  seeking  enlightenment." 


278  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


Florimond  smiled. 

"I  may  have  said  that  we  were  detained  by  a  fever; 
but  I  never  said  the  patient  was  myself." 

"Who  then?  Who  else?"  cried  Garnache. 

"Why,  now  I  understand,  monsieur.  But  it  is  my 
wife  who  has  the  fever." 

"Your — !"  Garnache  dared  not  trust  himself  to 
utter  the  word. 

"My  wife,  monsieur,"  the  Marquis  repeated.  "The 
journey  proved  too  much  for  her,  travelling  at  the  rate 
she  did." 

A  silence  fell.  Garnache's  long  chin  sank  on  to  his 
breast,  and  he  stood  there,  his  eyes  upon  the  table- 
cloth, his  thoughts  with  the  poor  innocent  child  who 
waited  at  Condillac,  so  full  of  trust  and  faith  and  loy- 
alty to  this  betrothed  of  hers  who  had  come  home 
with  a  wife  out  of  Italy. 

And  then,  while  he  stood  so  and  Florimond  was 
regarding  him  curiously,  the  door  opened,  and  the 
host  appeared. 

"Monsieur  le  Marquis,"  said  he,  "there  are  two 
gentlemen  below  asking  to  see  you.  One  of  them  is 
Monsieur  Marius  de  Condillac." 

"  Marius  ? "  cried  the  Marquis,  and  he  started  round 
with  a  frown. 

"Marius?"  breathed  Garnache,  and  then,  realizing 
that  the  assassins  had  followed  so  close  upon  his 
heels,  he  put  all  thoughts  from  his  mind  other  than 
that  of  the  immediate  business.  He  had,  himself,  a 
score  to  settle  with  them.  The  time  was  now.  He 
swung  round  on  his  heel,  and  before  he  knew  what  he 
had  said  the  words  were  out: 

"Bring  them  up,  Monsieur  rHole." 


FLORIMOND  DE  CONDILLAC  279 


Florimond  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

"Oh,  by  all  means,  if  monsieur  wishes  it,"  said  he, 
with  a  fine  irony. 

Garnache  looked  at  him,  then  back  at  the  hesitating 
host. 

"You  have  heard,"  said  he  coolly.  "Bring  them 

up.-r . 

"Bien>  monsieur,"  replied  the  host,  withdrawing 
and  closing  the  door  after  him. 

"Your  interference  in  my  affairs  grows  really  droll, 
monsieur,"  said  the  Marquis  tartly. 

"When  you  shall  have  learned  to  what  purpose  I 
am  interfering,  you'll  find  it,  possibly,  not  quite  so 
droll,"  was  the  answer,  no  less  tart.  "We  have  but  a 
moment,  monsieur.  Listen  while  I  tell  you  the  nature 
of  their  errand." 


CHAPTER  XXI 


THE  GHOST  IN  THE  CUPBOARD 

GARNACHE  had  but  a  few  minutes  in  which  to 
unfold  his  story,  and  he  needed,  in  addition,  a 
second  or  two  in  which  to  ponder  the  situation  as  he 
now  found  it. 

His  first  reflection  was  that  Florimond,  since  he  was 
now  married,  might  perhaps,  instead  of  proving  Val- 
erie's saviour  from  Marius,  join  forces  with  his  bro- 
ther in  coercing  her  into  this  alliance  with  him.  But 
from  what  Valerie  herself  had  told  him  he  was  inclined 
to  think  more  favourably  of  Florimond  and  to  sup- 
press such  doubts  as  these.  Still  he  could  incur  no  risks; 
his  business  was  to  serve  Valerie  and  Valerie  only;  to 
procure  at  all  costs  her  permanent  liberation  from  the 
power  of  the  Condillacs.  To  make  sure  of  this  he 
must  play  upon  Florimond's  anger,  letting  him  know 
that  Marius  had  journeyed  to  La  Rochette  for  the 
purpose  of  murdering  his  half-brother.  That  he  but 
sought  to  murder  him  to  the  end  that  he  might  be  re- 
moved from  his  path  to  Valerie,  was  a  circumstance 
that  need  not  too  prominently  be  presented.  Still, 
presented  it  must  be,  for  Florimond  would  require  to 
know  by  what  motive  his  brother  was  impelled  ere 
he  could  credit  him  capable  of  such  villainy. 

Succinctly,  but  tellingly,  Garnache  brought  out  the 
story  of  the  plot  that  had  been  laid  for  Florimond's 
assassination,  and  it  joyed  him  to  see  the  anger  rising 
in  the  Marquis's  face  and  flashing  from  his  eyes. 


THE  GHOST  IN  THE  CUPBOARD  281 


"What  reason  have  they  for  so  damnable  a  deed?" 
he  cried,  between  incredulity  and  indignation. 

"Their  overweening  ambition.  Marius  covets  Ma- 
demoiselle de  La  Vauvraye's  estates." 

"And  to  gain  his  ends  he  would  not  stop  at  murder- 
ing me?  Is  it,  indeed,  the  truth  you  tell  me?" 

"I  pledge  my  honour  for  the  truth  of  it,"  answered 
Garnache,  watching  him  closely.  Florimond  looked 
at  him  a  moment.  The  steady  glance  of  those  blue 
eyes  and  the  steady  tone  of  that  crisp  voice  scattered 
his  last  doubt. 

"The  villains!"  cried  the  Marquis.  "The  fools!" 
he  added.  "For  me,  Marius  had  been  welcome  to 
Valerie.  He  might  have  found  in  me  an  ally  to  aid 
him  in  the  urging  of  his  suit.  But  now  — "  He  raised 
his  clenched  hand  and  shook  it  in  the  air,  as  if  in 
promise  of  the  battle  he  would  deliver. 

"Good,"  said  Garnache,  reassured.  "I  hear  their 
steps  upon  the  stairs.  They  must  not  find  me  with 
you." 

A  moment  later  the  door  opened,  and  Marius,  very 
bravely  arrayed,  entered  the  room,  followed  closely 
by  Fortunio.  Neither  showed  much  ill  effects  of  last 
night's  happenings,  save  for  a  long  dark-brown  scar 
that  ran  athwart  the  captain's  cheek,  where  Gar- 
nache's  sword  had  ploughed  it. 

They  found  Florimond  seated  quietly  at  table,  and 
as  they  entered  he  rose  and  came  forward  with  a 
friendly  smile  to  greet  his  brother.  His  sense  of  hu- 
mour was  being  excited;  he  was  something  of  an  ac- 
tor, and  the  role  he  had  adopted  in  the  comedy  to  be 
played  gave  him  a  certain  grim  satisfaction.  He  would 
test  for  himself  the  truth  of  what  Monsieur  de  Gar- 


282  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


nache  had  told  him  concerning  his  brother's  intentions. 

Marius  received  his  advances  very  coolly.  He  took 
his  brother's  hand,  submitted  to  his  brother's  kiss;  but 
neither  kiss  nor  hand-pressure  did  he  return.  Flori- 
mond  affected  not  to  notice  this. 

"You  are  well,  my  dear  Marius,  I  hope,"  said  he, 
and  thrusting  him  out  at  arms'  length,  he  held  him  by 
the  shoulders  and  regarded  him  critically.  "Ma  foi, 
but  you  are  changed  into  a  comely  well-grown  man. 
And  your  mother  —  she  is  well,  too,  I  trust." 

"I  thank  you,  Florimond,  she  is  well,"  said  Marius 
stiffly. 

The  Marquis  took  his  hands  from  his  brother's 
shoulders;  his  florid,  good-natured  face  smiling  ever, 
as  if  this  were  the  happiest  moment  of  his  life. 

"It  is  good  to  see  France  again,  my  dear  Marius," 
he  told  his  brother.  "I  was  a  fool  to  have  remained 
away  so  long.  I  am  pining  to  be  at  Condillac  once 
more." 

Marius  eyeing  him,  looked  in  vain  for  signs  of  the 
fever.  He  had  expected  to  find  a  debilitated,  emaci- 
ated man;  instead,  he  saw  a  very  lusty,  healthy, 
hearty  fellow,  full  of  good  humour,  and  seemingly  full 
of  strength.  He  began  to  like  his  purpose  less,  despite 
such  encouragement  as  he  gathered  from  the  support 
of  Fortunio.  Still,  it  must  be  gone  through  with. 

"You  wrote  us  that  you  had  the  fever,"  he  said, 
half  inquiringly. 

"Pooh!  That  is  naught."  And  Florimond  snapped 
a  strong  finger  against  a  stronger  thumb.  "  But  whom 
have  you  with  you?"  he  asked,  and  his  eyes  took  the 
measure  of  Fortunio,  standing  a  pace  or  two  behind 
his  master. 


THE  GHOST  IN  THE  CUPBOARD  283 


Marius  presented  his  bravo. 

"This  is  Captain  Fortunio,  the  commander  of  our 
garrison  of  Condillac." 

The  Marquis  nodded  good-humouredly  towards  the 
captain. 

"Captain  Fortunio?  He  is  well  named  for  a  soldier 
of  fortune.  My  brother,  no  doubt,  will  have  family 
matters  to  tell  me  of.  If  you  will  step  below,  Monsieur 
le  Capitaine,  and  drink  a  health  or  so  while  you  wait,  I 
shall  be  honoured." 

The  captain,  nonplussed,  looked  at  Marius,  and 
Florimond  surprised  the  look.  But  Marius's  manner 
became  still  chillier. 

"Fortunio  here,"  said  he,  and  he  half  turned  and 
let  his  hand  fall  on  the  captain's  shoulder,  "  is  my  very 
good  friend.  I  have  no  secrets  from  him." 

The  instant  lift  of  Florimond's  eyebrows  was  full  of 
insolent,  supercilious  disdain.  Yet  Marius  did  not 
fasten  his  quarrel  upon  that.  He  had  come  to  La 
Rochette  resolved  that  any  pretext  would  serve  his 
turn.  But  the  sight  of  his  brother  so  inflamed  his 
jealousy  that  he  had  now  determined  that  the  quarrel 
should  be  picked  on  the  actual  ground  in  which  it  had 
its  roots. 

"Oh,  as  you  will,"  said  the  Marquis  coolly.  "Per- 
haps your  friend  will  be  seated,  and  you,  too,  my  dear 
Marius."  And  he  played  the  host  to  them  with  a 
brisk  charm.  Setting  chairs,  he  forced  them  to  sit,  and 
pressed  wine  upon  them. 

Marius  cast  his  hat  and  cloak  on  the  chair  where 
Garnache's  had  been  left.  The  Parisian's  hat  and 
cloak,  he  naturally  assumed  to  belong  to  his  brother. 
The  smashed  flagon  and  the  mess  of  wine  upon  the 


284  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


floor  he  scarce  observed,  setting  it  down  to  some 
clumsiness,  either  his  brother's  or  a  servant's.  They 
both  drank,  Marius  in  silence,  the  captain  with  a 
toast. 

"Your  good  return,  Monsieur  le  Marquis,"  said  he, 
and  Florimond  thanked  him  by  an  inclination  of  the 
head.  Then,  turning  to  Marius: 

"And  so,"  he  said,  "you  have  a  garrison  at  Con- 
dillac.  What  the  devil  has  been  taking  place  there?  I 
have  had  some  odd  news  of  you.  It  would  almost 
seem  as  if  you  were  setting  up  as  rebels  in  our  quiet 
little  corner  of  Dauphiny." 

Marius  shrugged  his  shoulders;  his  face  suggested 
that  he  was  ill-humoured. 

"Madame  the  Queen-Regent  has  seen  fit  to  inter- 
fere in  our  concerns.  We  Condillacs  do  not  lightly 
brook  interference." 

Florimond  showed  his  teeth  in  a  pleasant  smile. 

"That  is  true,  that  is  very  true,  Pardieu!  But 
what  warranted  this  action  of  Her  Majesty's?" 

Marius  felt  that  the  time  for  deeds  was  come.  This 
fatuous  conversation  was  but  a  futile  waste  of  time. 
He  set  down  his  glass,  and  sitting  back  in  his  chair  he 
fixed  his  sullen  black  eyes  full  upon  his  half-brother's 
smiling  brown  ones. 

"  I  think  we  have  exchanged  compliments  enough," 
said  he,  and  Fortunio  wagged  his  head  approvingly. 
There  were  too  many  men  in  the  courtyard  for  his 
liking,  and  the  more  time  they  waited,  the  more  likely 
were  they  to  suffer  interruption.  Their  aim  must  be 
to  get  the  thing  done  quickly,  and  then  quickly  to  de- 
part before  an  alarm  could  be  raised.  "Our  trouble  at 
Condillac  concerns  Mademoiselle  de  La  Vauvraye." 


THE  GHOST  IN  THE  CUPBOARD  285 


Florimond  started  forward,  with  a  ready  assump- 
tion of  lover-like  solicitude. 

"No  harm  has  come  to  her?"  he  cried.  "Tell  me 
that  no  harm  has  come  to  her." 

"Reassure  yourself, "  answered  Marius,  with  a  sneer, 
a  greyness  that  was  of  jealous  rage  overspreading 
his  face.  "No  harm  has  come  to  her  whatever.  The 
trouble  was  that  I  sought  to  wed  her,  and  she,  be- 
cause she  is  betrothed  to  you,  would  have  none  of  me. 
So  we  brought  her  to  Condillac,  hoping  always  to 
persuade  her.  You  will  remember  that  she  was  under 
my  mother's  tutelage.  The  girl,  however,  could  not 
be  constrained.  She  suborned  one  of  our  men  to  bear  a 
letter  to  Paris  for  her,  and  in  answer  to  it  the  Queen 
sent  a  hot-headed,  rash  blunderer  down  to  Dauphiny 
to  procure  her  liberation.  He  lies  now  at  the  bottom 
of  the  moat  of  Condillac." 

Florimond's  face  had  assumed  a  look  of  horror  and 
indignation. 

"Do  you  dare  tell  me  this?"  he  cried. 

"Dare?"  answered  Marius,  with  an  ugly  laugh. 
"Men  enough  have  died  over  this  affair  already. 
That  fellow  Garnache  left  some  bodies  on  our  hands 
last  night  before  he  set  out  for  another  world  himself. 
You  little  dream  how  far  my  daring  goes  in  this 
matter.  I'll  add  as  many  more  as  need  be  to  the 
death  roll  that  we  have  already,  before  you  set  foot 
in  Condillac." 

"Ah!"  said  Florimond,  as  one  upon  whose  mind  a 
light  breaks  suddenly.  "So,  that  is  the  business  on 
which  you  come  to  me.  I  doubted  your  brotherliness, 
I  must  confess,  my  dear  Marius.  But  tell  me,  bro- 
ther mine,  what  of  our  father's  wishes  in  this  matter? 
Have  you  no  respect  for  those?" 


286  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


"What  respect  had  you?"  flashed  back  Marius,  his 
voice  now  raised  in  anger.  "Was  it  like  a  lover  to 
remain  away  for  three  years  —  to  let  all  that  time  go 
by  without  ever  a  word  from  you  to  your  betrothed? 
What  have  you  done  to  make  good  your  claim  to 
her?" 

"Nothing,  I  confess;  yet  — " 

"Well,  you  shall  do  something  now,"  exclaimed 
Marius,  rising.  "I  am  here  to  afford  you  the  oppor- 
tunity. If  you  would  still  win  Mademoiselle  de  La 
Vauvraye,  you  shall  win  her  from  me  —  at  point  of 
sword.  Fortunio,  see  to  the  door." 

"Wait,  Marius!"  cried  Florimond,  and  he  looked 
genuinely  aghast.  "Do  not  forget  that  we  are  bro- 
thers, men  of  the  same  blood;  that  my  father  was 
your  father." 

"I  choose  to  remember  rather  that  we  are  rivals," 
answered  Marius,  and  he  drew  his  rapier.  Fortunio 
turned  the  key  in  the  lock.  Florimond  gave  his 
brother  a  long  searching  look,  then  with  a  sigh  he 
picked  up  his  sword  where  it  lay  ready  to  his  hand  and 
thoughtfully  unsheathed  it.  Holding  the  hilt  in  one 
hand  and  the  blade  in  the  other  he  stood,  bending 
the  weapon  like  a  whip,  whilst  again  he  searchingly 
regarded  his  brother. 

"Hear  me  a  moment,"  said  he.  "If  you  will  force 
this  unnatural  quarrel  upon  me,  at  least  let  the  thing 
be  decently  done.  Not  here,  not  in  these  cramped 
quarters,  but  out  in  the  open  let  our  meeting  take 
place.  If  the  captain,  there,  will  act  for  you,  I'll  find  a 
friend  to  do  me  the  like  service." 

"We  settle  this  matter  here  and  now,"  Marius 
answered  him,  in  a  tone  of  calm  finality. 


THE  GHOST  IN  THE  CUPBOARD  287 


"But  if  I  were  to  kill  you  — "  Florimond  began. 
"Reassure  yourself,"  said  Marius  with  an  ugly 
smile. 

"Very  well,  then;  either  alternative  will  suit  the 
case  I  wish  to  put.  If  you  were  to  kill  me  —  it  may  be 
ranked  as  murder.  The  irregularity  of  it  could  not  be 
overlooked." 

"The  captain,  here,  will  act  for  both  of  us." 

"I  am  entirely  at  your  service,  gentlemen,"  replied 
Fortunio  pleasantly,  bowing  to  each  in  turn. 

Florimond  considered  him.  "  I  do  not  like  his  looks," 
he  objected.  "He  may  be  the  friend  of  your  bosom, 
Marius;  you  may  have  no  secrets  from  him;  but  for 
my  part,  frankly,  I  should  prefer  the  presence  of  some 
friend  of  my  own  to  keep  his  blade  engaged." 

The  Marquis's  manner  was  affable  in  the  extreme. 
Now  that  it  was  settled  that  they  must  fight,  he 
appeared  to  have  cast  aside  all  scruples  based  upon 
their  consanguinity,  and  he  discussed  the  affair  with 
the  greatest  bonhomie,  as  though  he  were  disposing  of 
a  matter  of  how  they  should  sit  down  to  table. 

It  gave  them  pause.  The  change  was  too  abrupt. 
They  did  not  like  it.  It  was  as  the  calm  that  screens 
some  surprise.  Yet  it  was  impossible  he  should  have 
been  forewarned;  impossible  he  could  have  had  word 
of  how  they  proposed  to  deal  with  him. 

Marius  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"There  is  reason  in  what  you  say,"  he  acknow- 
ledged; "but  I  am  in  haste.  I  cannot  wait  while  you 
go  in  search  of  a  friend." 

"Why  then,"  he  answered,  with  a  careless  laugh, 
"I  must  raise  one  from  the  dead." 

Both  stared  at  him.  Was  he  mad?  Had  the  fever 


288  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


touched  his  brain?  Was  that  healthy  colour  but  the 
brand  of  a  malady  that  rendered  him  delirious? 

"Dieu!  How  you  stare!"  he  continued,  laughing  in 
their  faces.  "You  shall  see  something  to  compensate 
you  for  your  journey,  messieurs.  I  have  learnt  some 
odd  tricks  in  Italy;  they  are  a  curious  people  beyond 
the  Alps.  What  did  you  say  was  the  name  of  the  man 
the  Queen  had  sent  from  Paris  ?  —  he  who  lies  at  the 
bottom  of  the  moat  of  Condillac?" 

"Let  there  be  an  end  to  this  jesting,"  growled 
Marius.  "On  guard,  Monsieur  le  Marquis!" 

"Patience!  patience!"  Florimond  implored  him. 
"You  shall  have  your  way  with  me,  I  promise  you. 
But  of  your  charity,  messieurs,  tell  me  first  the  name 
of  that  man." 

"It  was  Garnache,"  said  Fortunio,  "and  if  the 
information  will  serve  you,  it  was  I  who  slew  him." 

"You?"  cried  Florimond.  "Tell  me  of  it,  I  beg 
you." 

"  Do  you  fool  us  ? "  questioned  Marius  in  a  rage  that 
overmastered  his  astonishment,  his  growing  suspicion 
that  here  all  was  not  quite  as  it  seemed. 

"Fool  you?  But  no.  I  do  but  wish  to  show  you 
something  that  I  learned  in  Italy.  Tell  me  how  you 
slew  him,  Monsieur  le  Capitaine." 

"I  think  we  are  wasting  time,"  said  the  captain, 
angry  too.  He  felt  that  this  smiling  gentleman  was 
deriding  the  pair  of  them;  it  crossed  his  mind  that  for 
some  purpose  of  his  own  the  Marquis  was  seeking  to 
gain  time.  He  drew  his  sword. 

Florimond  saw  the  act,  watched  it,  and  his  eyes 
twinkled.  Suddenly  Marius's  sword  shot  out  at  him. 
He  leapt  back  beyond  the  table,  and  threw  himself  on 


THE  GHOST  IN  THE  CUPBOARD  289 


guard,  his  lips  still  wreathed  in  their  mysterious  smile. 

"The  time  has  come,  messieurs,"  said  he.  "I  should 
have  preferred  to  know  more  of  how  you  slew  that 
Monsieur  de  Garnache;  but  since  you  deny  me  the 
information,  I  shall  do  my  best  without  it.  I'll  try  to 
conjure  up  his  ghost,  to  keep  you  entertained,  Mon- 
sieur le  Capitaine."  And  then,  raising  his  voice,  his 
sword,  engaging  now  his  brother's: 

"  Ola,  Monsieur  de  Garnache ! "  he  cried.  "  To  me ! " 

And  then  it  seemed  to  those  assassins  that  the 
Marquis  had  been  neither  mad  nor  boastful  when  he 
had  spoken  of  strange  things  he  had  learned  beyond 
the  Alps,  or  else  it  was  they  themselves  were  turned 
light-headed,  for  the  doors  of  a  cupboard  at  the  far 
end  of  the  room  flew  open  suddenly,  and  from  between 
them  stepped  the  stalwart  figure  of  Martin  de  Gar- 
nache, a  grim  smile  lifting  the  corners  of  his  mus- 
tachios,  a  naked  sword  in  his  hand  flashing  back  the 
sunlight  that  flooded  through  the  window. 

They  paused,  aghast,  and  they  turned  ashen;  and 
then  in  the  mind  of  each  arose  the  same  explanation 
of  this  phenomenon.  This  Garnache  wore  the  appear- 
ance of  the  man  who  had  announced  himself  by  that 
name  when  he  came  to  Condillac  a  fortnight  ago. 
Then,  the  sallow,  black-haired  knave  who  had  last 
night  proclaimed  himself  as  Garnache  in  disguise 
was  some  impostor.  That  was  the  conclusion  they 
promptly  arrived  at,  and  however  greatly  they  might 
be  dismayed  by  the  appearance  of  this  ally  of  Flori- 
mond's,  yet  the  conclusion  heartened  them  anew. 
But  scarce  had  they  arrived  at  it  when  Monsieur  de 
Garnache's  crisp  voice  came  swiftly  to  dispel  it. 

"Monsieur  le  Capitaine,"  it  said,  and  Fortunio 


290  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


shivered  at  the  sound,  for  it  was  the  voice  he  had  heard 
but  a  few  hours  ago,  "I  welcome  the  opportunity 
of  resuming  our  last  night's  interrupted  sword-play." 
And  he  advanced  deliberately. 

Marius's  sword  had  fallen  away  from  his  brother's, 
and  the  two  combatants  stood  pausing.  Fortunio 
without  more  ado  made  for  the  door.  But  Garnache 
crossed  the  intervening  space  in  u  bound. 

"Turn!"  he  cried.  "Turn,  or  I'll  put  my  sword 
through  your  back.  The  door  shall  serve  you  pres- 
ently, but  it  is  odds  that  it  will  need  a  couple  of  men 
to  bear  you  through  it.  Look  to  your  dirty  skin!" 


CHAPTER  XXII 


THE  OFFICES  OF  MOTHER  CHURCH 

A COUPLE  of  hours  after  the  engagement  in 
the  Marquis  de  Condillac's  apartments  at  the 
Sanglier  Noir  at  La  Rochette,  Monsieur  de  Garnache, 
attended  only  by  Rabecque,  rode  briskly  into  France 
once  more  and  made  for  the  little  town  of  Cheylas, 
which  is  on  the  road  that  leads  down  to  the  valley  of 
the  Isere  and  to  Condillac.  But  not  as  far  as  the  town- 
ship did  he  journey.  On  a  hill,  the  slopes  all  culti- 
vated into  an  opulent  vineyard,  some  two  miles  east 
of  Cheylas,  stood  the  low,  square  grey  building  of  the 
Convent  of  Saint  Francis.  Thither  did  Monsieur  de 
Garnache  bend  his  horse's  steps.  Up  the  long  white 
road  that  crept  zigzag  through  the  Franciscans'  vine- 
yards rode  the  Parisian  and  his  servant  under  the 
welcome  sunshine  of  that  November  afternoon. 

Garnache's  face  was  gloomy  and  his  eyes  sad,  for 
his  thoughts  were  all  of  Valerie,  and  he  was  prey  to  a 
hundred  anxieties  regarding  her. 

They  gained  the  heights  at  last,  and  Rabecque 
got  down  to  beat  with  his  whip  upon  the  convent 
gates. 

A  lay-brother  came  to  open,  and  in  reply  to  Gar- 
nache's request  that  he  might  have  a  word  with  the 
Father  Abbot,  invited  him  to  enter. 

Through  the  cloisters  about  the  great  quadrangle, 
where  a  couple  of  monks,  their  habits  girt  high  as  their 
knees,  were  busy  at  gardeners'  work,  Garnache  fol- 


SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


lowed  his  conductor,  and  up  the  steps  to  the  Abbot's 
chamber. 

The  master  of  the  Convent  of  Saint  Francis  of 
Cheylas  —  a  tall,  lean  man  with  an  ascetic  face, 
prominent  cheek-bones,  and  a  nose  not  unlike  Gar- 
nache's  own  —  the  nose  of  a  man  of  action  rather  than 
of  prayer  —  bowed  gravely  to  this  stalwart  stranger, 
and  in  courteous  accents  begged  to  be  informed  in 
what  he  might  serve  him. 

Hat  in  hand,  Garnache  took  a  step  forward  in  that 
bare,  scantily  furnished  little  room,  permeated  by  the 
faint,  wax-like  odour  that  is  peculiar  to  the  abode  of 
conventuals.  Without  hesitation  he  stated  the  reason 
of  his  visit. 

"Father,"  said  he,  "a  son  of  the  house  of  Condiilac 
met  his  end  this  morning  at  La  Rochette." 

The  monk's  eyes  seemed  to  quicken,  as  though  his 
interest  in  the  outer  world  had  suddenly  revived. 

"It  is  the  Hand  of  God,"  he  cried.  "Their  evil 
ways  have  provoked  at  last  the  anger  of  Heaven. 
How  did  this  unfortunate  meet  his  death?" 

Garnache  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"De  mortuis  nil  nisi  bonum"  said  he.  His  air  was 
grave,  his  blue  eyes  solemn,  and  the  Abbot  had  little 
cause  to  suspect  the  closeness  with  which  that  pair  of 
eyes  was  watching  him.  He  coloured  faintly  at  the 
implied  rebuke,  but  he  inclined  his  head  as  if  sub- 
missive to  the  correction,  and  waited  for  the  other  to 
proceed. 

"There  is  the  need,  Father,  to  give  his  body  burial." 
said  Garnache  gently. 

But  at  that  the  monk  raised  his  head,  and  a  deeper 
flush  —  the  flush  of  anger  —  spread  now  upon  his 


THE  OFFICES  OF  MOTHER  CHURCH  293 


sallow  cheeks.  Garnache  observed  it,  and  was  glad. 

"Why  do  you  come  to  me?"  he  asked. 

"Why?"  echoed  Garnache,  and  there  was  hesitancy 
now  in  his  voice.  "Is  not  the  burial  of  the  dead  en- 
joined by  Mother  Church?  Is  it  not  a  part  of  your 
sacred  office?" 

"You  ask  me  this  as  you  would  challenge  my  re- 
ply," said  the  monk,  shaking  his  head.  "It  is  as  you 
say,  but  it  is  not  within  our  office  to  bury  the  impious 
dead,  nor  those  who  in  life  were  excommunicate  and 
died  without  repentance." 

"How  can  you  assume  he  died  without  repent- 
ance?" 

"I  do  not;  but  I  assume  he  died  without  absolution, 
for  there  is  no  priest  who,  knowing  his  name,  would 
dare  to  shrive  him,  and  if  one  should  do  it  in  ignorance 
of  his  name  and  excommunication,  why  then  it  is  not 
done  at  all.  Bid  others  bury  this  son  of  the  house  of 
Condillac;  it  matters  no  more  by  what  hands  or  in 
what  ground  he  be  buried  than  if  he  were  the  horse  he 
rode  or  the  hound  that  followed  him." 

"The  Church  is  very  harsh,  Father,"  said  Garnache 
sternly. 

"The  Church  is  very  just,"  the  priest  answered 
him,  more  sternly  still,  a  holy  wrath  kindling  his 
sombre  eyes. 

"He  was  in  life  a  powerful  noble,"  said  Garnache 
thoughtfully.  "It  is  but  fitting  that,  being  dead, 
honour  and  reverence  should  be  shown  his  body." 

"Then  let  those  who  have  themselves  been  hon- 
oured by  the  Condillacs  honour  this  dead  Condillac 
now.  The  Church  is  not  of  that  number,  monsieur. 
Since  the  late  Marquis's  death  the  house  of  Condillac 


294  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


has  been  in  rebellion  against  us;  our  priests  have  been 
maltreated,  our  authority  flouted;  they  paid  no  tithes, 
approached  no  sacraments.  Weary  of  their  ungodli- 
ness the  Church  placed  its  ban  upon  them:  under  this 
ban  it  seems  they  die.  My  heart  grieves  for  them; 
but — " 

He  spread  nis  hands,  long  and  almost  transparent 
in  their  leanness,  and  on  his  face  a  cloud  of  sorrow 
rested. 

"Nevertheless,  Father,"  said  Garnache,  "twenty 
brothers  of  Saint  Francis  shall  bear  the  body  home  to 
Condillac,  and  you  yourself  shall  head  this  grim  pro- 
cession." 

"I?"  The  monk  shrank  back  before  him,  and  his 
figure  seemed  to  grow  taller.  "Who  are  you,  sir,  that 
say  to  me  what  I  shall  do,  the  Church's  law  despite?" 

Garnache  took  the  Abbot  by  the  sleeve  of  his  rough 
habit  and  drew  him  gently  towards  the  window. 
There  was  a  persuasive  smile  on  his  lips  and  in  his 
keen  eyes  which  the  monk,  almost  unconsciously, 
obeyed. 

"I  will  tell  you,"  said  Garnache,  "and  at  the  same 
time  I  shall  seek  to  turn  you  from  your  harsh  pur- 
pose." 

At  the  hour  at  which  Monsieur  de  Garnache  was 
seeking  to  persuade  the  Abbot  of  Saint  Francis  of 
Cheylas  to  adopt  a  point  of  view  more  kindly  towards 
a  dead  man,  Madame  de  Condillac  was  at  dinner, 
and  with  her  was  Valerie  de  La  Vauvraye.  Neither 
woman  ate  appreciably.  The  one  was  oppressed  by 
sorrow,  the  other  by  anxiety,  and  the  circumstance 
that  they  were  both  afflicted  served  perhaps  to  render 
the  Dowager  gentler  in  her  manner  towards  the  girl. 


THE  OFFICES  OF  MOTHER  CHURCH  295 


She  watched  the  pale  face  and  troubled  eyes  of 
Valerie;  she  observed  the  almost  lifeless  manner  in 
which  she  came  and  went  as  she  was  bidden,  as  though 
a  part  of  her  had  ceased  to  exist,  and  that  part  the 
part  that  matters  most.  It  did  cross  her  mind  that  in 
this  condition  mademoiselle  might  the  more  readily 
be  bent  to  their  will,  but  she  dwelt  not  overlong  upon 
that  reflection.  Rather  was  her  mood  charitable,  no 
doubt  because  she  felt  herself  the  need  of  charity,  the 
want  of  sympathy. 

She  was  tormented  by  fears  altogether  dispropor- 
tionate to  their  cause.  A  hundred  times  she  told  her- 
self that  no  ill  could  befall  Marius.  Florimond  was 
a  sick  man,  and  were  he  otherwise,  there  was  still 
Fortunio  to  stand  by  and  see  to  it  that  the  right  sword 
pierced  the  right  heart,  else  would  his  pistoles  be  lost 
to  him. 

Nevertheless  she  was  fretted  by  anxiety,  and  she 
waited  impatiently  for  news,  fuming  at  the  delay,  yet 
knowing  full  well  that  news  could  not  yet  reach  her. 

Once  she  reproved  Valerie  for  her  lack  of  appetite, 
and  there  was  in  her  voice  a  kindness  Valerie  had  not 
heard  for  months  —  not  since  the  old  Marquis  died, 
nor  did  she  hear  it  now,  or,  hearing  it,  she  did  not 
heed  it. 

"You  are  not  eating,  child,"  the  Dowager  said,  and 
her  eyes  were  gentle. 

Valerie  looked  up  like  one  suddenly  awakened;  and 
in  that  moment  her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  It  was  as  if 
the  Dowager's  voice  had  opened  the  floodgates  of  her 
sorrow  and  let  out  the  tears  that  hitherto  had  been 
repressed.  The  Marquise  rose  and  waved  the  page 
and  an  attendant  lackey  from  the  room.  She  crossed 


296  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


to  Valerie's  side  and  put  her  arm  about  the  girl's 
shoulder. 

"What  ails  you,  child?"  she  asked.  For  a  moment 
the  girl  suffered  the  caress;  almost  she  seemed  to 
nestle  closer  to  the  Dowager's  shoulder.  Then,  as  if 
understanding  had  come  to  her  suddenly,  she  drew 
back  and  quietly  disengaged  herself  from  the  other's 
arms.  Her  tears  ceased;  the  quiver  passed  from  her 

"You  are  very  good,  madame,"  she  said,  with  a 
coldness  that  rendered  the  courteous  words  almost 
insulting,  "but  nothing  ails  me  save  a  wish  to  be 
alone." 

"You  have  been  alone  too  much  of  late,"  the 
Dowager  answered,  persisting  in  her  wish  to  show 
kindness  to  Valerie;  for  all  that,  had  she  looked  into 
her  own  heart,  she  might  have  been  puzzled  to  find  a 
reason  for  her  mood  —  unless  the  reason  lay  in  her 
own  affliction  of  anxiety  for  Marius. 

"Perhaps  I  have,"  said  the  girl,  in  the  same  cold, 
almost  strained  voice.  "It  was  not  by  my  own  con- 
triving." 

"Ah,  but  it  was,  child;  indeed  it  was.  Had  you  been 
reasonable  you  had  found  us  kinder.  We  had  never 
treated  you  as  we  have  done,  never  made  a  prisoner 
of  you." 

Valerie  looked  up  into  the  beautiful  ivory-white 
face,  with  its  black  eyes  and  singularly  scarlet  lips, 
and  a  wan  smile  raised  the  corners  of  her  gentle 
mouth. 

"You  had  no  right  —  none  ever  gave  it  you  —  to 
set  constraint  and  restraint  upon  me." 

"I  had  —  indeed,  indeed  I  had,"  the  Marquise 


THE  OFFICES  OF  MOTHER  CHURCH  297 


answered  her,  in  a  tone  of  sad  protest.  "Your  father 
gave  me  such  a  right  when  he  gave  me  charge  of  you." 

"Was  it  a  part  of  your  charge  to  seek  to  turn  me 
from  my  loyalty  to  Florimond,  and  endeavour  to  com- 
pel me  by  means  gentle  or  ungentle  into  marriage 
with  Marius?" 

"We  thought  Florimond  dead;  or,  if  not  dead,  then 
certainly  unworthy  of  you  to  leave  you  without  news 
of  him  for  years  together.  And  if  he  was  not  dead  then, 
it  is  odds  he  will  be  dead  by  now."  The  words  slipped 
out  almost  unconsciously,  and  the  Marquise  bit  her 
lip  and  straightened  herself,  fearing  an  explosion. 
But  none  came.  The  girl  looked  across  the  table  at  the 
fire  that  smouldered  on  the  hearth  in  need  of  being 
replenished. 

"What  do  you  mean,  madame?"  she  asked;  but  her 
tone  was  listless,  apathetic,  as  of  one  who  though 
uttering  a  question  is  incurious  as  to  what  the  answer 
may  be. 

"We  had  news  some  days  ago  that  he  was  journey- 
ing homewards,  but  that  he  was  detained  by  fever  at 
La  Rochette.  We  have  since  heard  that  his  fever  has 
grown  so  serious  that  there  is  little  hope  of  his  re- 
covery." 

"And  it  was  to  solace  his  last  moments  that  Mon- 
sieur Marius  left  Condillac  this  morning?" 

The  Dowager  looked  sharply  at  the  girl;  but  Va- 
lerie's face  continued  averted,  her  gaze  resting  on 
the  fire.  Her  tone  suggested  nothing  beyond  a  natural 
curiosity. 

"Yes,"  said  the  Dowager. 

"And  lest  his  own  efforts  to  help  his  brother  out  of 
this  world  should  prove  insufficient  he  took  Captain 


298  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


Fortunio  with  him  ? "  said  Valerie,  in  the  same  indiffer- 
ent voice. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  the  Marquise  almost  hissed 
into  the  girl's  ear. 

Valerie  turned  to  her,  a  faint  colour  stirring  in  her 
white  face. 

"Just  what  I  have  said,  madame.  Would  you  know 
what  I  have  prayed  ?  All  night  was  I  upon  my  knees 
from  the  moment  that  I  recovered  consciousness, 
and  my  prayers  were  that  Heaven  might  see  fit  to  let 
Florimond  destroy  your  son.  Not  that  I  desire  Flori- 
mond's  return,  for  I  care  not  if  I  never  set  eyes  on  him 
again.  There  is  a  curse  upon  this  house,  madame," 
the  girl  continued,  rising  from  her  chair  and  speaking 
now  with  a  greater  animation,  whilst  the  Marquise 
recoiled  a  step,  her  face  strangely  altered  and  suddenly 
gone  grey,  "and  I  have  prayed  that  that  curse  might 
be  worked  out  upon  that  assassin,  Marius.  A  fine 
husband,  madame,  you  would  thrust  upon  the 
daughter  of  Gaston  de  La  Vauvraye." 

And  turning,  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  she 
moved  slowly  down  the  room,  and  took  her  way  to 
her  own  desolate  apartments,  so  full  of  memories  of 
him  she  mourned  —  of  him,  it  seemed  to  her,  she 
must  always  mourn;  of  him  who  lay  dead  in  the  black 
waters  of  the  moat  beneath  her  window. 

Stricken  with  a  sudden,  inexplicable  terror,  the 
Dowager,  who  for  all  her  spirit  was  not  without  a 
certain  superstition,  felt  her  knees  loosen,  and  she 
sank  limply  into  a  chair.  She  was  amazed  at  the 
extent  of  Valerie's  knowledge,  and  puzzled  by  it;  she 
was  amazed,  too,  at  the  seeming  apathy  of  Valerie  for 
the  danger  in  which  Florimond  stood,  and  at  her 


THE  OFFICES  OF  MOTHER  CHURCH  299 

avowal  that  she  did  not  care  if  she  never  again  be- 
held him.  But  such  amazement  as  came  to  her  was 
whelmed  fathoms-deep  in  her  sudden  fears  for  Ma- 
rius.  If  he  should  die!  She  grew  cold  at  the  thought, 
and  she  sat  there,  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap,  her 
face  grey.  That  mention  of  the  curse  the  Church 
had  put  upon  them  had  frozen  her  quick  blood  and 
turned  her  stout  spirit  to  mere  water. 

At  last  she  rose  and  went  out  into  the  open  to 
inquire  if  no  messenger  had  yet  arrived,  for  all  that 
she  knew  there  was  not  yet  time  for  any  messenger  to 
have  reached  the  chateau.  She  mounted  the  winding 
staircase  of  stone  that  led  to  the  ramparts,  and  there 
alone,  in  the  November  sunshine,  she  paced  to  and 
fro  for  hours,  waiting  for  news,  straining  her  eyes  to 
gaze  up  the  valley  of  the  Isere,  watching  for  the  horse- 
man that  must  come  that  way.  Then,  as  time  sped  on 
and  the  sun  approached  its  setting  and  still  no  one 
came,  she  bethought  her  that  if  harm  had  befallen 
Marius,  none  would  ride  that  night  to  Condillac. 
This  very  delay  seemed  pregnant  with  news  of  dis- 
aster. And  then  she  shook  off"  her  fears  and  tried  to 
comfort  herself.  There  was  not  yet  time.  Besides, 
what  had  she  to  fear  for  Marius  ?  He  was  strong  and 
quick,  and  Fortunio  was  by  his  side.  A  man  was 
surely  dead  by  now  at  La  Rochette;  but  that  man 
could  not  be  Marius. 

At  last,  in  the  distance,  she  espied  a  moving  object, 
and  down  on  the  silent  air  of  eventide  came  the  far- 
off  rattle  of  a  horse's  hoofs.  Some  one  was  riding, 
galloping  that  way.  He  was  returned  at  last.  She 
leaned  on  the  battlements,  her  breath  coming  in 
quick,  short  gasps,  and  watched  the  horseman  grow- 
ing larger  with  every  stride  of  his  horse. 


SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


A  mist  was  rising  from  the  river,  and  it  dimmed  the 
figure;  and  she  cursed  the  mist  for  heightening  her 
anxiety,  for  straining  further  her  impatience.  Then  a 
new  fear  was  begotten  in  her  mind.  Why  came  one 
horseman  only  where  two  should  have  ridden?  Who 
was  it  that  returned,  and  what  had  befallen  his  com- 
panion? God  send,  at  least,  it  might  be  Marius  who 
rode  thus,  at  such  a  breakneck  pace. 

At  last  she  could  make  him  out.  He  was  close  to  the 
chateau  now,  and  she  noticed  that  his  right  arm  was 
bandaged  and  hanging  in  a  sling.  And  then  a  scream 
broke  from  her,  and  she  bit  her  lip  hard  to  keep  an- 
other in  check,  for  she  had  seen  the  horseman's  face, 
and  it  was  Fortunio's.  Fortunio  —  and  wounded! 
Then,  assuredly,  Marius  was  dead! 

She  swayed  where  she  stood.  She  set  her  hand  on 
her  bosom,  above  her  heart,  as  if  she  would  have  re- 
pressed the  beating  of  the  one,  the  heaving  of  the 
other;  her  soul  sickened,  and  her  mind  seemed  to  turn 
numb,  as  she  waited  there  for  the  news  that  should 
confirm  her  fears. 

The  hoofs  of  his  horse  thundered  over  the  planks 
of  the  drawbridge,  and  came  clatteringly  to  halt  as 
he  harshly  drew  rein  in  the  courtyard  below.  There 
was  a  sound  of  running  feet  and  men  sprang  to  his 
assistance.  Madame  would  have  gone  below  to  meet 
him;  but  her  limbs  seemed  to  refuse  their  office.  She 
leaned  against  one  of  the  merlons  of  the  embattled 
parapet,  her  eyes  on  the  spot  where  he  should  emerge 
from  the  stairs,  and  thus  she  waited,  her  eyes  haggard, 
her  face  drawn. 

He  came  at  last,  lurching  in  his  walk,  being  over- 
stiff  from  his  long  ride.  She  took  a  step  forward  to 
meet  him.  Her  lips  parted- 


THE  OFFICES  OF  MOTHER  CHURCH  301 


"Well?"  she  asked  him,  and  her  voice  sounded 
harsh  and  strained.  "How  has  the  venture  sped?" 

"The  only  way  it  could,"  he  answered.  "As  you 
would  wish  it." 

At  that  she  thought  that  she  must  faint.  Her  lungs 
seemed  to  writhe  for  air,  and  she  opened  her  lips  and 
took  long  draughts  of  the  rising  mist,  never  speaking 
for  a  moment  or  two  until  she  had  sufficiently  re- 
covered from  this  tremendous  revulsion  from  her 
fears. 

"Then,  where  is  Marius?"  she  asked  at  last. 

"He  has  remained  behind  to  accompany  the  body 
home.  They  are  bringing  it  here." 

"They?"  she  echoed.  "Who  are  they?" 

"The  monks  of  Saint  Francis  of  Cheylas,"  he 
answered. 

A  something  in  his  tone,  a  something  in  his  shifty 
eyes,  a  cloud  upon  his  fair  and  usually  so  ingenuous- 
looking  countenance  aroused  her  suspicions  and  gave 
her  resurrected  courage  pause. 

She  caught  him  viciously  by  the  arms,  and  forced 
his  glance  to  meet  her  own  in  the  fading  daylight. 

"It  is  the  truth  you  are  telling  me,  Fortunio?"  she 
snapped,  and  her  voice  was  half-angry,  half-fearful. 

He  faced  her  now,  his  eyes  bold.  He  raised  a  hand 
to  lend  emphasis  to  his  words. 

"  I  swear,  madame,  by  my  salvation,  that  Monsieur 
Marius  is  sound  and  well." 

She  was  satisfied.  She  released  his  arm. 

"Does  he  come  to-night?"  she  asked. 

"They  will  be  here  to-morrow,  madame.  I  rode  on 
to  tell  you  so." 

"An  odd  fancy,  this  of  his.  But"  —  and  a  sudden 


3o2  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


smile  overspread  her  face  — "we  may  find  a  more  use 
ful  purpose  for  one  of  these  monks." 

An  hour  ago  she  would  willingly  have  set  made- 
moiselle at  liberty  in  exchange  for  the  assurance  that 
Marius  had  been  successful  in  the  business  that  had 
taken  him  over  the  border  into  Savoy.  She  would 
have  done  it  gladly,  content  that  Marius  should  be 
heir  to  Condillac.  But  now  that  Condillac  was 
assured  her  son,  she  must  have  more  for  him;  her 
insatiable  greed  for  his  advancement  and  prosperity 
was  again  upon  her.  Now,  more  than  ever  —  now 
that  Florimond  was  dead  —  must  she  have  La  Vau- 
vraye  for  Marius,  and  she  thought  that  mademoiselle 
would  no  longer  be  difficult  to  bend.  The  child  had 
fallen  in  love  with  that  mad  Garnache,  and  when  a 
woman  is  crossed  in  love,  while  her  grief  lasts  it 
matters  little  to  her  where  she  weds.  Did  she  not 
know  it  out  of  the  fund  of  her  own  bitter  experience? 
Was  it  not  that  —  the  compulsion  her  own  father  had 
employed  to  make  her  find  a  mate  in  a  man  so  much 
older  than  herself  as  Condillac  —  that  had  warped 
her  own  nature,  and  done  much  to  make  her  what  she 
was? 

A  lover  she  had  had,  and  whilst  he  lived  she  had 
resisted  them,  and  stood  out  against  this  odious  mar- 
riage that  for  convenience'  sake  they  forced  upon 
her.  He  was  killed  in  Paris  in  a  duel,  and  when  the 
news  of  it  came  to  her,  she  had  folded  her  hands  and 
let  them  wed  her  to  whom  they  listed. 

Of  just  such  a  dejection  of  spirit  had  she  observed 
the  signs  in  Valerie;  let  them  profit  by  it  while  it 
lasted.  They  had  been  long  enough  without  Church 
ceremonies  at  Condillac    There  should  be  two  to- 


THE  OFFICES  OF  MOTHER  CHURCH  303 


morrow  to  make  up  for  the  empty  time  —  a  wedding 
and  a  burial. 

She  was  going  down  the  stairs,  Fortunio  a  step 
behind  her,  when  her  mind  reverted  to  the  happening 
at  La  Rochette. 

"Was  it  well  done?"  she  asked. 

"It  made  some  stir,"  said  he.  "The  Marquis  had 
men  with  him,  and  had  the  affair  taken  place  in 
France  ill  might  have  come  of  it." 

"You  shall  give  me  a  full  account  of  it,"  said  she, 
rightly  thinking  that  there  was  still  something  to  be 
explained.  Then  she  laughed  softly.  "Yes,  it  was 
a  lucky  chance  for  us,  his  staying  at  La  Rochette. 
Florimond  was  born  under  an  unlucky  star,  I  think, 
and  you  under  a  lucky  one,  Fortunio." 

"I  think  so,  too,  as  regards  myself,"  he  answered 
grimly,  and  he  thought  of  the  sword  that  had  ploughed 
his  cheek  last  night  and  pierced  his  sword-arm  that 
morning,  and  he  thanked  such  gods  as  in  his  godless- 
ness  he  owned  for  the  luck  that  had  kept  that  sword 
from  finding  out  his  heart. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  GARNACHE 

ON  the  morrow,  which  was  a  Friday  and  the  tenth 
of  November  —  a  date  to  be  hereafter  graven  on 
the  memory  of  all  concerned  in  the  affairs  of  Condillac 
—  the  Dowager  rose  betimes,  and,  for  decency's  sake, 
having  in  mind  the  business  of  the  day,  she  gowned 
herself  in  black. 

Betimes,  too,  the  Lord  Seneschal  rode  out  of  Gre- 
noble, attended  by  a  couple  of  grooms,  and  headed 
for  Condillac,  in  doing  which  —  little  though  he  sus- 
pected it  —  he  was  serving  nobody's  interests  more 
thoroughly  than  Monsieur  de  Garnache's. 

Madame  received  him  courteously.  She  was  in  a 
blithe  and  happy  mood  that  morning  —  the  reaction 
from  her  yesterday's  distress  of  mind.  The  world  was 
full  of  promise,  and  all  things  had  prospered  with  her 
and  Marius.  Her  boy  was  lord  of  Condillac;  Flori- 
mond,  whom  she  had  hated  and  who  had  stood  in  the 
way  of  her  boy's  advancement,  was  dead  and  on  his 
way  to  burial;  Garnache,  the  man  from  Paris  who 
might  have  made  trouble  for  them  had  he  ridden  home 
again  with  the  tale  of  their  resistance,  was  silenced  for 
all  time,  and  the  carp  in  the  moat  would  be  feasting 
by  now  upon  what  was  left  of  him;  Valerie  de  La  Vau- 
vraye  was  in  a  dejected  frame  of  mind  that  augured 
well  for  the  success  of  the  Dowager's  plans  concerning 
her,  and  by  noon  at  latest  there  would  be  priests  at 
Condillac,  and,  if  Marius  still  wished  to  marry  the 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  GARNACHE 


obstinate  baggage,  there  would  be  no  difficulty  as  to 
that. 

It  was  a  glorious  morning,  mild  and  sunny  as  an 
April  day,  as  though  Nature  took  a  hand  in  the 
Dowager's  triumph  and  wished  to  make  the  best  of 
its  wintry  garb  in  honour  of  it. 

The  presence  of  this  gross  suitor  of  hers  afforded  her 
another  source  of  satisfaction.  There  would  no  longer 
be  the  necessity  she  once  had  dreaded  of  listening  to 
his  suit  for  longer  than  it  should  be  her  pleasure  to  be 
amused  by  him.  But  when  Tressan  spoke,  he  struck 
the  first  note  of  discord  in  the  perfect  harmony  which 
the  Dowager  imagined  existed. 

"Madame,''  said  he,  "I  am  desolated  that  I  am  not 
a  bearer  of  better  tidings.  But  for  all  that  we  have 
made  the  most  diligent  search,  the  man  Rabecque  has 
not  yet  been  apprehended.  Still,  we  have  not  aban- 
doned hope,"  he  added,  by  way  of  showing  that  there 
was  a  silver  lining  to  his  cloud  of  danger. 

For  just  a  moment  madame's  brows  were  knitted. 
She  had  forgotten  Rabecque  until  now;  but  an  in- 
stant's reflection  assured  her  that  in  forgetting  him  she 
had  done  him  no  more  than  such  honour  as  he  deserved. 
She  laughed,  as  she  led  the  way  down  the  garden  steps 
—  the  mildness  of  the  day  and  the  brightness  of  her 
mood  had  moved  her  there  to  receive  the  Seneschal. 

"From  the  sombreness  of  your  tone  one  might  fear 
your  news  to  be  of  the  nature  of  some  catastrophe. 
What  shall  it  signify  that  Rabecque  eludes  your  men? 
He  is  but  a  lackey  after  all." 

"True,"  said  the  Seneschal,  very  soberly;  "but  do 
not  forget,  I  beg,  that  he  is  the  bearer  of  letters  from 
one  who  is  not  a  lackey." 


306  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


The  laughter  went  out  of  her  face  at  that.  Here 
was  something  that  had  been  lost  sight  of  in  the  all- 
absorbing  joy  of  other  things.  In  calling  the  forgotten 
Rabecque  to  mind  she  had  but  imagined  that  it  was 
no  more  than  a  matter  of  the  tale  he  might  tell  —  a 
tale  not  difficult  to  refute,  she  thought.  Her  word 
should  always  weigh  against  a  lackey's.  But  that 
letter  was  a  vastly  different  matter. 

"He  must  be  found,  Tressan,"  she  said  sharply. 

Tressan  smiled  uneasily,  and  chewed  at  his  beard. 

"No  effort  shall  be  spared,"  he  promised  her.  "Of 
that  you  may  be  very  sure.  The  affairs  of  the  province 
are  at  a  standstill,"  he  added,  that  vanity  of  his  for 
appearing  a  man  of  infinite  business  rising  even  in  an 
hour  of  such  anxiety,  for  to  himself,  no  less  than  to 
her,  was  there  danger  should  Rabecque  ever  reach  his 
destination  with  the  papers  Garnache  had  said  he 
carried. 

"The  affairs  of  the  province  are  at  a  standstill,"  he 
repeated,  "while  all  my  energies  are  bent  upon  this 
quest.  Should  we  fail  to  have  news  of  his  capture  in 
Dauphiny,  we  need  not,  nevertheless,  despond.  I  have 
sent  men  after  him  along  the  three  roads  that  lead  to 
Paris.  They  are  to  spare  neither  money  nor  horses  in 
picking  up  his  trail  and  effecting  his  capture.  After 
all,  I  think  we  shall  have  him." 

"He  is  our  only  danger  now,"  the  Marquise  an- 
swered, "for  Florimond  is  dead  —  of  the  fever,"  she 
added,  with  a  sneering  smile  which  gave  Tressan 
sensations  as  of  cold  water  on  his  spine.  "It  were  an 
irony  of  fate  if  that  miserable  lackey  were  to  reach 
Paris  now  and  spoil  the  triumph  for  which  we  have 
worked  so  hard." 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  GARNACHE  307 


"It  were,  indeed,"  Tressan  agreed  with  her,  "and 
we  must  see  that  he  does  not." 

"But  if  he  does,"  she  returned,  "then  we  must 
stand  together."  And  with  that  she  set  her  mind  at 
ease  once  more,  her  mood  that  morning  being  very- 
optimistic. 

"Always,  I  hope,  Clotilde,"  he  answered,  and  his 
little  eyes  leered  up  out  of  the  dimples  of  fat  in  which 
they  were  embedded.  "I  have  stood  by  you  like  a  true 
friend  in  this  affair;  is  it  not  so?" 

"Indeed;  do  I  deny  it?"  she  answered  half  scorn- 
fully. 

"As  I  shall  stand  by  you  always  when  the  need 
arises.  You  are  a  little  in  my  debt  concerning  Mon- 
sieur de  Garnache." 

"I  —  I  realize  it,"  said  she,  and  she  felt  again  as  if 
the  sunshine  were  gone  from  the  day,  the  blitheness 
from  her  heart.  She  was  moved  to  bid  him  cease 
leering  at  her  and  to  take  himself  and  his  wooing  to 
the  devil.  But  she  bethought  her  that  the  need  for 
him  might  not  yet  utterly  be  passed.  Not  only  in  the 
affair  of  Garnache  —  in  which  he  stood  implicated  as 
deeply  as  herself —  might  she  require  his  loyalty,  but 
also  in  the  matter  of  what  had  befallen  yesterday  at 
La  Rochette;  for  despite  Fortunio's  assurances  that 
things  had  gone  smoothly,  his  tale  hung  none  too 
convincingly  together;  and  whilst  she  did  not  enter- 
tain any  serious  fear  of  subsequent  trouble,  yet  it 
might  be  well  not  utterly  to  banish  the  consideration 
of  such  a  possibility,  and  to  keep  the  Seneschal  her 
ally  against  it.  So  she  told  him  now,  with  as  much 
graciousness  as  she  could  command,  that  she  fully 
realized  her  debt,  and  when,  encouraged,  he  spoke  of 


308  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


his  reward,  she  smiled  upon  him  as  might  a  girl  smile 
upon  too  impetuous  a  wooer  whose  impetuosity  she 
deprecates  yet  cannot  wholly  withstand. 

"I  am  a  widow  of  six  months,"  she  reminded  him, 
as  she  had  reminded  him  once  before.  Her  widowhood 
was  proving  a  most  convenient  refuge.  "It  is  not  for 
me  to  listen  to  a  suitor,  however  my  foolish  heart  may 
incline.  Come  to  me  in  another  six  months'  time  " 

"And  you  will  wed  me  then?"  he  bleated. 

By  an  effort  her  eyes  smiled  down  upon  him,  al- 
though her  face  was  a  trifle  drawn. 

"Have  I  not  said  that  I  will  listen  to  no  suitor?  and 
what  is  that  but  a  suitor's  question?" 

He  caught  her  hand;  he  would  have  fallen  on  his 
knees  there  and  then,  at  her  feet,  on  the  grass  still  wet 
with  the  night's  mist,  but  that  he  in  time  bethought 
him  of  how  sadly  his  fine  apparel  would  be  the 
sufferer. 

"Yet  I  shall  not  sleep,  I  shall  know  no  rest,  no 
peace  until  you  have  given  me  an  answer.  Just  an 
answer  is  all  I  ask.  I  will  set  a  curb  upon  my  im- 
patience afterwards,  and  go  through  my  period  of  — 
ah  —  probation  without  murmuring.  Say  that  you 
will  marry  me  in  six  months'  time  —  at  Easter,  say." 

She  saw  that  an  answer  she  must  give,  and  so  she 
gave  him  the  answer  that  he  craved.  And  he  —  poor 
fool !  —  never  caught  the  ring  of  her  voice,  as  false  as 
the  ring  of  a  base  coin;  never  guessed  that  in  promis- 
ing she  told  herself  it  would  be  safe  to  break  that 
promise  six  months  hence,  when  the  need  of  him  and 
his  loyalty  would  be  passed. 

A  man  approached  them  briskly  from  the  chateau. 
He  brought  news  that  a  numerous  company  of  monks 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  GARNACHE  309 


was  descending  the  valley  of  the  Isere  towards  Con- 
dillac.  A  faint  excitement  stirred  her,  and  accom- 
panied by  Tressan  she  retraced  her  steps  and  made 
for  the  battlements,  whence  she  might  overlook  their 
arrival. 

As  they  went  Tressan  asked  for  an  explanation  of 
this  cortege,  and  she  answered  him  with  Fortunio's 
story  of  how  things  had  sped  yesterday  at  La  Ro- 
chette. 

Up  the  steps  leading  to  the  battlements  she  went 
ahead  of  him,  with  a  youthful,  eager  haste  that  took 
no  thought  for  the  corpulence  and  short-windedness  of 
the  following  Seneschal.  From  the  heights  she  looked 
eastwards,  shading  her  eyes  from  the  light  of  the 
morning  sun,  and  surveyed  the  procession  which  with 
slow  dignity  paced  down  the  valley  towards  Condillac. 

At  its  head  walked  the  tall,  lean  figure  of  the  Abbot 
of  Saint  Francis  of  Cheylas,  bearing  on  high  a  silvered 
crucifix  that  flashed  and  scintillated  in  the  sunlight. 
His  cowl  was  thrown  back,  revealing  his  pale,  ascetic 
countenance  and  shaven  head.  Behind  him  came  a 
coffin  covered  by  a  black  pall,  and  borne  on  the 
shoulders  of  six  black-robed,  black-cowled  monks, 
and  behind  these  again  walked,  two  by  two,  some 
fourteen  cowled  brothers  of  the  order  of  Saint  Francis, 
their  heads  bowed,  their  arms  folded,  and  their  hands 
tucked  away  in  their  capacious  sleeves. 

It  was  a  numerous  cortege,  and  as  she  watched  its 
approach  the  Marquise  was  moved  to  wonder  by 
what  arguments  had  the  proud  Abbot  been  induced 
to  do  so  much  honour  to  a  dead  Condillac  and  bear 
his  body  home  to  this  excommunicated  roof. 

Behind  the  monks  a  closed  carriage  lumbered  down 


SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


the  uneven  mountain  way,  and  behind  this  rode  four 
mounted  grooms  in  the  livery  of  Condillac.  Of  Marius 
she  saw  nowhere  any  sign,  and  she  inferred  him  to  be 
travelling  in  that  vehicle,  the  attendant  servants  being 
those  of  the  dead  Marquis. 

In  silence,  with  the  Seneschal  at  her  elbow,  she 
watched  the  procession  advance  until  it  was  at  the 
foot  of  the  drawbridge.  Then,  while  the  solemn 
rhythm  of  their  feet  sounded  across  the  planks  that 
spanned  the  moat,  she  turned,  and,  signing  to  the 
Seneschal  to  follow  her,  she  went  below  to  meet  them. 
But  when  she  reached  the  courtyard  she  was  surprised 
to  find  they  had  not  paused,  as  surely  would  have 
been  seemly.  Unbidden,  the  Abbot  had  gone  forward 
through  the  great  doorway  and  down  the  gallery  that 
led  to  the  hall  of  Condillac.  Already,  when  she  arrived 
below,  the  coffin  and  its  bearers  had  disappeared,  and 
the  last  of  the  monks  was  passing  from  sight  in  its 
wake.  Leaning  against  the  doorway  through  which 
they  were  vanishing  stood  Fortunio,  idly  watching 
that  procession  and  thoughtfully  stroking  his  mus- 
tachios.  About  the  yard  lounged  a  dozen  or  so  men- 
at-arms,  practically  all  the  garrison  that  was  left  them 
since  the  fight  with  Garnache  two  nights  ago. 

After  the  last  monk  had  disappeared,  she  still  re- 
mained there,  expectantly;  and  when  she  saw  that 
neither  the  carriage  nor  the  grooms  made  their  ap- 
pearance, she  stepped  up  to  Fortunio  to  inquire  into 
the  reason  of  it. 

"  Surely  Monsieur  de  Condillac  rides  in  that  coach," 
said  she. 

"Surely,"  Fortunio  answered,  himself  looking  puz- 
zled. "I  will  go  seek  the  reason,  madame.  Mean- 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  GARNACHE  311 


while  will  you  receive  the  Abbot?  The  monks  will 
have  deposited  their  burden." 

She  composed  her  features  into  a  fitting  solemnity, 
and  passed  briskly  through  to  the  hall,  Tressan  ever 
at  her  heels.  Here  she  found  the  coffin  deposited  on 
the  table,  its  great  black  pall  of  velvet,  silver-edged, 
sweeping  down  to  the  floor.  No  fire  had  been  lighted 
that  morning  nor  had  the  sun  yet  reached  the  win- 
dows, so  that  the  place  wore  a  chill  and  gloomy  air 
that  was  perhaps  well  attuned  to  the  purpose  that  it 
was  being  made  to  serve. 

With  a  rare  dignity,  her  head  held  high,  she  swept 
down  the  length  of  that  noble  chamber  towards  the 
Abbot,  who  stood  erect  as  a  pikestaff  at  the  table- 
head,  awaiting  her.  And  well  was  it  for  him  that  he 
was  a  man  of  austere  habit  of  mind,  else  might  her 
majestic,  incomparable  beauty  have  softened  his  heart 
and  melted  the  harshness  of  his  purpose. 

He  raised  his  hand  when  she  was  within  a  sword's 
length  of  him,  and  with  startling  words,  delivered  in 
ringing  tones,  he  broke  the  ponderous  silence. 

"Wretched  woman,"  he  denounced  her,  "your  sins 
have  found  you  out.  Justice  is  to  be  done,  and  your 
neck  shall  be  bent  despite  your  stubborn  pride.  De- 
rider  of  priests,  despoiler  of  purity,  mocker  of  Holy 
Church,  your  impious  reign  is  at  an  end." 

Tressan  fell  back  aghast,  his  face  blenching  to  the 
lips;  for  if  justice  was  at  hand  for  her,  as  the  Abbot 
said,  then  was  justice  at  hand  for  him  as  well.  Where 
had  their  plans  miscarried?  What  flaw  was  there  that 
hitherto  she  had  not  perceived?  Thus  he  questioned 
himself  in  his  sudden  panic. 

But  the  Marquise  was  no  sharer  in  his  tremors.  Her 


3i2  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


eyes  opened  a  trifle  wider;  a  faint  colour  crept  into  her 
cheeks;  but  her  only  emotions  were  of  amazement 
and  indignation.  Was  he  mad,  this  shaveling  monk? 
That  was  the  question  that  leapt  into  her  mind,  the 
very  question  with  which  she  coldly  answered  his 
outburst. 

"For  madness  only,"  she  thought  fit  to  add,  "could 
excuse  such  rash  temerity  as  yours." 

"Not  madness,  madame,"  he  answered,  with  chill 
haughtiness  —  "not  madness,  but  righteous  indigna- 
tion. You  have  defied  the  power  of  Holy  Church  as 
you  have  defied  the  power  of  our  sovereign  lady, 
and  justice  is  upon  you.  We  are  here  to  present  the 
reckoning,  and  see  its  payment  made  in  full." 

She  fancied  he  alluded  to  the  body  in  the  coffin  — 
the  body  of  her  stepson  —  and  she  could  have  laughed 
at  his  foolish  conclusions  that  she  must  account 
Florimond's  death  an  act  of  justice  upon  her  for  her 
impiety.  But  her  rising  anger  left  her  no  room  for 
laughter. 

"I  thought,  sir  priest,  you  were  come  to  bury  the 
dead.  But  it  rather  seems  you  are  come  to  talk." 

He  looked  at  her  long  and  sternly.  Then  he  shook 
his  head,  and  the  faintest  shadow  of  a  smile  haunted 
his  ascetic  face. 

"Not  to  talk,  madame;  oh,  not  to  talk,"  he  an- 
swered slowly.  "  But  to  act,  I  have  come,  madame,  to 
liberate  from  this  shambles  the  gentle  lamb  you  hold 
here  prisoned." 

At  that  some  of  the  colour  left  her  cheeks;  her  eyes 
grew  startled:  at  last  she  began  to  realize  that  all  was 
not  as  she  had  thought  —  as  she  had  been  given  to 
understand.  Still,  she  sought  to  hector  it,  from  very 
instinct. 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  GARNACHE  313 


" Vertudieu!"  she  thundered  at  him.  "What  mean 
you?" 

Behind  her  Tressan's  great  plump  knees  were 
knocking  one  against  the  other.  Fool  that  he  had  been 
to  come  to  Condillac  that  day,  and  to  be  trapped  thus 
in  her  company,  a  partner  in  her  guilt.  This  proud 
Abbot  who  stood  there  uttering  denunciations  had 
some  power  behind  him,  else  had  he  never  dared  to 
raise  his  voice  in  Condillac  within  call  of  desperate 
men  who  would  give  little  thought  to  the  sacredness 
of  his  office. 

"What  mean  you?"  she  repeated  —  adding  with  a 
sinister  smile,  "in  your  zeal,  Sir  Abbot,  you  are  for- 
getting that  my  men  are  within  call." 

"So,  madame,  are  mine,"  was  his  astounding  an- 
swer, and  he  waved  a  hand  towards  the  array  of 
monks,  all  standing  with  bowed  heads  and  folded 
arms. 

At  that  her  laughter  rang  shrill  through  the  cham- 
ber. "These  poor  shavelings?"  she  questioned. 

"Just  these  poor  shavelings,  madame,"  he  an- 
swered, and  he  raised  his  hand  again  and  made  a  sign. 
And  then  an  odd  thing  happened,  and  it  struck  a  real 
terror  into  the  heart  of  the  Marquise  and  heightened 
that  which  was  already  afflicting  her  fat  lover,  Tres- 
san. 

The  monks  drew  themselves  erect.  It  was  as  if  a 
sudden  gust  of  wind  had  swept  through  their  ranks 
and  set  them  all  in  motion.  Cowls  fell  back  and 
habits  were  swept  aside,  and  where  twenty  monks  had 
stood,  there  were  standing  now  a  score  of  nimble, 
stalwart  men  in  the  livery  of  Condillac,  all  fully  armed, 
all  grinning  in  enjoyment  of  her  and  Tressan's  dismay. 


SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


One  of  them  turned  aside  and  locked  the  door  of 
the  chamber.  But  his  movement  went  unheeded  by 
the  Dowager,  whose  beautiful  eyes,  starting  with 
horror,  were  now  back  upon  the  grim  figure  of  the 
Abbot,  marvelling  almost  to  see  no  transformation 
wrought  in  him. 

"Treachery!"  she  breathed,  in  an  awful  voice,  that 
was  no  louder  than  a  whisper,  and  again  her  eyes 
travelled  round  the  company,  and  suddenly  they 
fastened  upon  Fortunio,  standing  six  paces  from  her 
to  the  right,  pulling  thoughtfully  at  his  mustachios, 
and  manifesting  no  surprise  at  what  had  taken  place. 

In  a  sudden,  blind  choler,  she  swept  round,  plucked 
the  dagger  from  Tressan's  belt  and  flung  herself  upon 
the  treacherous  captain.  He  had  betrayed  her  in  some 
way;  he  had  delivered  up  Condillac  —  into  whose 
power  she  had  yet  had  no  time  to  think.  She  caught 
him  by  the  throat  with  a  hand  of  such  nervous  strength 
as  one  would  little  have  suspected  from  its  white  and 
delicate  contour.  Her  dagger  was  poised  in  the  air, 
and  the  captain,  taken  thus  suddenly,  was  palsied  with 
amazement  and  could  raise  no  hand  to  defend  himself 
from  the  blow  impending. 

But  the  Abbot  stepped  suddenly  to  her  side  and 
caught  her  wrist  in  his  thin,  transparent  hand. 

"Forbear,"  he  bade  her.  "The  man  is  but  a  tool." 

She  fell  back  —  dragged  back  almost  by  the  Abbot 
—  panting  with  rage  and  grief;  and  then  she  noticed 
that  during  the  moment  that  her  back  had  been  turned 
the  pall  had  been  swept  from  the  coffin.  The  sight  of 
the  bare  deal  box  arrested  her  attention,  and  for  the 
moment  turned  aside  her  anger.  What  fresh  surprise 
did  they  prepare  her? 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  GARNACHE  315 


No  sooner  had  she  asked  herself  the  question  than 
herself  she  answered  it,  and  an  icy  hand  seemed  to 
close  about  her  heart.  It  was  Marius  who  was  dead. 
They  had  lied  to  her.  Marius's  was  the  body  they  had 
borne  to  Condillac  —  those  men  in  the  livery  of  her 
stepson. 

With  a  sudden  sob  in  her  throat  she  took  a  step 
towards  the  coffin.  She  must  see  for  herself.  One  way 
or  the  other  she  must  at  once  dispel  this  torturing 
doubt.  But  ere  she  had  taken  three  paces,  she  stood 
arrested  again,  her  hands  jerked  suddenly  to  the 
height  of  her  breast,  her  lips  parting  to  let  out  a 
scream  of  terror.  For  the  coffin-lid  had  slowly  raised 
and  clattered  over.  And  as  if  to  pile  terror  for  her,  a 
figure  rose  from  the  box,  and,  sitting  up,  looked  round 
with  a  grim  smile;  and  the  figure  was  the  figure  of  a 
man  whom  she  knew  to  be  dead,  a  man  who  had  died 
by  her  contriving  —  it  was  the  figure  of  Garnache. 
It  was  Garnache  as  he  had  been  on  the  occasion  of  his 
first  coming  to  Condillac,  as  he  had  been  on  the  day 
they  had  sought  his  life  in  this  very  room.  How  well 
she  knew  that  great  hooked  nose  and  the  bright, 
steely  blue  eyes,  the  dark  brown  hair,  ash-coloured  at 
the  temples  where  age  had  paled  it,  and  the  fierce, 
reddish  mustachios,  bristling  above  the  firm  mouth 
and  long,  square  chin. 

She  stared  and  stared,  her  beautiful  face  livid  and 
distorted,  till  there  was  no  beauty  to  be  seen  in  it, 
what  time  the  Abbot  regarded  her  coldly  and  Tressan, 
behind  her,  turned  almost  sick  with  terror.  But  not 
the  terror  of  ghosts  was  it  afflicted  him.  He  saw  in 
Garnache  a  man  who  was  still  of  the  quick  —  a  man 
who  by  some  miracle  had  escaped  the  fate  to  which 


3i6  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


they  supposed  him  to  have  succumbed;  and  his  terror 
was  the  terror  of  the  reckoning  which  that  man  would 
ask. 

After  a  moment's  pause,  as  if  relishing  the  sensation 
he  had  created,  Garnache  rose  to  his  feet  and  leapt 
briskly  to  the  ground.  There  was  nothing  ghostly 
about  the  thud  with  which  he  alighted  on  his  feet  be- 
fore her.  A  part  of  her  terror  left  her;  yet  not  quite  all. 
She  saw  that  she  had  but  a  man  to  deal  with,  yet  she 
began  to  realize  that  this  man  was  very  terrible. 

"Garnache  again!"  she  gasped. 

He  bowed  serenely,  his  lips  smiling. 

"Aye,  madame,"  he  told  her  pleasantly,  "always 
Garnache.  Tenacious  as  a  leech,  madame;  and  like  a 
leech  come  hither  to  do  a  little  work  of  purification." 

Her  eyes,  now  kindling  again  as  she  recovered  from 
her  recent  fears,  sought  Fortunio's  shifty  glance.  Gar- 
nache followed  it  and  read  what  was  in  her  mind. 

"What  Fortunio  has  done,"  said  he,  "he  has  done 
by  your  son's  authority  and  sanction." 

"  Marius  ? "  she  inquired,  and  she  was  almost  fearful 
lest  she  should  hear  that  by  her  son  he  meant  her  step- 
son, and  that  Marius  was  dead. 

"Yes,  Marius,"  he  answered  her.  "I  bent  him  to 
my  will.  I  threatened  him  that  he  and  this  fellow  of 
his,  this  comrade  in  arms  so  worthy  of  his  master, 
should  be  broken  on  the  wheel  together  unless  I  were 
implicitly  obeyed.  If  they  would  save  their  lives,  this 
was  their  chance.  They  were  wise,  and  they  took  it, 
and  thus  afforded  me  the  means  of  penetrating  into 
Condillac  and  rescuing  Mademoiselle  de  La  Vau- 
vraye." 

"Then  Marius — ?"    She  left  her  question  un- 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  GARNACHE  317 


finished,  her  hand  clutching  nervously  at  the  bosom  of 
her  gown. 

"Is  sound  and  well,  as  Fortunio  truthfully  will  have 
told  you.  But  he  is  not  yet  out  of  my  grasp,  nor  will 
be  until  the  affairs  of  Condillac  are  settled.  For  if 
I  meet  with  further  opposition  here,  broken  on  the 
wheel  he  shall  be  yet,  I  promise  you." 

Still  she  made  a  last  attempt  at  hectoring  it.  The 
long  habit  of  mastership  dies  hard.  She  threw  back 
her  head;  her  courage  revived  now  that  she  knew 
Marius  to  be  alive  and  sound. 

"Fine  words,"  she  sneered.  " But  who  are  you  that 
you  can  threaten  so  and  promise  so?" 

"I  am  the  Queen-Regent's  humble  mouthpiece, 
madame.  What  I  threaten,  I  threaten  in  her  name. 
Ruffle  it  no  longer,  I  beseech  you.  It  will  prove  little 
worth  your  while.  You  are  deposed,  madame,  and 
you  had  best  take  your  deposition  with  dignity  and 
calm  —  in  all  friendliness  do  I  advise  it." 

"  I  am  not  yet  come  so  low  that  I  need  your  advice," 
she  answered  sourly. 

"You  may  before  the  sun  sets,"  he  answered,  with 
his  quiet  smile.  "The  Marquis  de  Condillac  and  his 
wife  are  still  at  La  Rochette,  waiting  until  my  business 
here  is  done  that  they  may  come  home." 

"His  wife?"  she  cried. 

"His  wife,  madame.  He  has  brought  home  a  wife 
from  Italy." 

"Then  —  then  —  Marius ? "  She  said  no  more  than 
that.  Maybe  she  had  no  intention  of  muttering  even 
so  much  of  her  thoughts  aloud.  But  Garnache  caught 
the  trend  of  her  mind,  and  he  marvelled  to  see  how 
strong  a  habit  of  thought  can  be.  At  once  upon  hear- 


318  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


ing  of  the  Marquis's  marriage  her  mind  had  flown 
back  to  its  wonted  pondering  of  the  possibilities  of 
Marius's  wedding  Valerie. 

But  Garnache  dispelled  such  speculations. 

"No,  madame,"  said  he.  "Marius  looks  elsewhere 
for  a  wife  —  unless  mademoiselle  of  her  own  free  will 
should  elect  to  wed  him  —  a  thing  unlikely."  Then, 
with  a  sudden  change  to  sternness  —  "Mademoiselle 
de  La  Vauvraye  is  well,  madame?"  he  asked. 

She  nodded  her  head,  but  made  no  answer  in  words. 
He  turned  to  Fortunio. 

"Go  fetch  her,"  he  bade  the  captain,  and  one  of  the 
men  unlocked  the  door  to  let  Fortunio  out  upon  that 
errand. 

The  Parisian  took  a  turn  in  the  apartment,  and 
came  close  to  Tressan.  He  nodded  to  the  Seneschal 
with  a  friendliness  that  turned  him  sick  with 
fright. 

"Well  met,  my  dear  Lord  Seneschal.  I  am  rejoiced 
to  find  you  here.  Had  it  been  otherwise  I  must  have 
sent  for  you.  There  is  a  little  matter  to  be  settled 
between  us.  You  may  depend  upon  me  to  settle  it 
to  your  present  satisfaction,  if  to  your  future  grief." 
And,  with  a  smile,  he  passed  on,  leaving  the  Seneschal 
too  palsied  to  answer  him,  too  stricken  to  disclaim  his 
share  in  what  had  taken  place  at  Condillac. 

"You  have  terms  to  make  with  me?"  the  Marquise 
questioned  proudly. 

"  Certainly,"  he  answered,  with  his  grim  courtesy. 
"Upon  your  acceptance  of  those  terms  shall  depend 
Marius's  life  and  your  own  future  liberty." 

"What  are  they?" 

"That  within  the  hour  all  your  people  —  to  the 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  GARNACHE  319 


last  scullion  —  shall  have  laid  down  their  arms  and 
vacated  Condillac." 

It  was  beyond  her  power  to  refuse. 

"The  Marquis  will  not  drive  me  forth?"  she  half 
affirmed,  half  asked. 

"The  Marquis,  madame,  has  no  power  in  this 
matter.  It  is  for  the  Queen  to  deal  with  your  in- 
subordination —  for  me  as  the  Queen's  emissary." 

"If  I  consent,  monsieur,  what  then?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  smiled  quietly. 

"There  is  no  'if,'  madame.  Consent  you  must, 
willingly  or  unwillingly.  To  make  sure  of  that  have  I 
come  back  thus  and  with  force.  But  should  you  de- 
liver battle,  you  will  be  worsted  —  and  it  will  be  very 
ill  for  you.  Bid  your  men  depart,  as  I  have  told  you, 
and  you  also  shall  have  liberty  to  go  hence." 

"Aye,  but  whither?"  she  cried,  in  a  sudden  frenzy 
of  anger. 

"I  realize,  madame,  from  what  I  know  of  your  cir- 
cumstances that  you  will  be  well-nigh  homeless.  You 
should  have  thought  of  how  one  day  you  might  come 
to  be  dependent  upon  the  Marquis  de  Condillac's 
generosity  before  you  set  yourself  to  conspire  against 
him,  before  you  sought  to  encompass  his  death.  You 
can  hardly  look  for  generosity  at  his  hands  now,  and 
so  you  will  be  all  but  homeless,  unless — "  He  paused, 
and  his  eyes  strayed  to  Tressan  and  were  laden  with  a 
sardonic  look. 

"You  take  a  very  daring  tone  with  me,"  she  told 
him.  "You  speak  to  me  as  no  man  has  ever  dared  to 
speak." 

"When  the  power  was  yours,  madame,  you  dealt 
with  me  as  none  has  ever  dared  to  deal.  The  ad- 


320  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


vantage  now  is  mine.  Behold  how  I  use  it  in  your  own 
interests;  observe  how  generously  I  shall  deal  with 
you  who  deal  in  murder.  Monsieur  de  Tressan,"  he 
called  briskly.  The  Seneschal  started  forward  as  if 
some  one  had  prodded  him  suddenly. 

"Mu  —  monsieur?"  said  he. 

"With  you,  too,  will  I  return  good  for  evil.  Come 
hither." 

The  Seneschal  approached,  wondering  what  was 
about  to  take  place.  The  Marquise  watched  his 
coming,  a  cold  glitter  in  her  eye,  for  —  keener  of 
mental  vision  than  Tressan  —  she  already  knew  the 
hideous  purpose  that  was  in  Garnache's  mind. 

The  soldiers  grinned;  the  Abbot  looked  on  with  an 
impassive  face. 

"The  Marquise  de  Condillac  is  likely  to  be  home- 
less henceforth,"  said  the  Parisian,  addressing  the 
Seneschal.  "Will  you  not  be  gallant  enough  to  offer 
her  a  home,  Monsieur  de  Tressan?" 

"Will  I?"  gasped  Tressan,  scarce  daring  to  believe 
his  own  ears,  his  eyes  staring  with  a  look  that  was 
almost  one  of  vacancy.  "Madame  well  knows  how 
readily." 

"Oho?"  crowed  Garnache,  who  had  been  observing 
madame's  face.  "She  knows?  Then  do  so,  monsieur; 
and  on  that  condition  I  will  forget  your  indiscretions 
here.  I  pledge  you  my  word  that  you  shall  not  be 
called  to  further  account  for  the  lives  that  have  been 
lost  through  your  treachery  and  want  of  loyalty,  pro- 
vided that  of  your  own  free  will  you  lay  down  your 
Seneschalship  of  Dauphiny  —  an  office  which  I  can- 
not consent  to  see  you  filling  hereafter." 

Tressan  stared  from  the  Dowager  to  Garnache  and 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  GARNACHE  321 

back  to  the  Dowager.  She  stood  there  as  if  Garnache's 
words  had  turned  her  into  marble,  bereft  of  speech 
through  very  rage.  And  then  the  door  opened,  and 
Mademoiselle  de  La  Vauvraye  entered,  followed 
closely  by  Fortunio. 

At  sight  of  Garnache  she  stood  still,  set  her  hand  on 
her  heart,  and  uttered  a  low  cry.  Was  it  indeed  Gar- 
nache she  saw  —  Garnache,  her  brave  knight-errant? 
He  looked  no  longer  as  he  had  looked  during  those  days 
when  he  had  been  her  gaoler;  but  he  looked  as  she 
liked  to  think  of  him  since  she  had  accounted  him 
dead.  He  advanced  to  meet  her,  a  smile  in  his  eyes 
that  had  something  wistful  in  it.  He  held  out  both 
hands  to  her,  and  she  took  them,  and  there,  under  the 
eyes  of  all,  before  he  could  snatch  them  away,  she  had 
stooped  and  kissed  them,  whilst  a  murmur  of  — 

"Thank  God!  Thank  God!"  escaped  from  her  lips 
to  heaven. 

"Mademoiselle,  mademoiselle!"  he  remonstrated, 
when  it  was  too  late  to  stay  her.  "You  must  not;  it 
is  not  seemly  in  me  to  allow  it." 

He  saw  in  the  act  no  more  than  an  expression  of  the 
gratitude  for  what  he  had  done  to  serve  her,  and  for 
the  risk  in  which  his  life  had  been  so  willingly  placed 
in  that  service.  Under  the  suasion  of  his  words  she 
grew  calm  again;  then,  suddenly,  a  fear  stirred  her 
once  more  in  that  place  where  she  had  known  naught 
but  fears. 

"Why  are  you  here,  monsieur?  You  have  come 
into  danger  again?" 

"No,  no,"  he  laughed.  "These  are  my  own  men  — 
at  least,  for  the  time  being.  I  am  come  in  power  this 
time,  to  administer  justice.  What  shall  be  done  with 


SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


this  lady,  mademoiselle?"  he  asked;  and  knowing  well 
the  merciful  sweetness  of  the  girl's  soul,  he  added, 
"Speak,  now.  Her  fate  shall  rest  in  your  hands." 

Valerie  looked  at  her  enemy,  and  then  her  eyes 
strayed  round  the  room  and  took  stock  of  the  men 
standing  there  in  silence,  of  the  Abbot  who  still  re- 
mained at  the  table-head,  a  pale,  scarce-interested 
spectator  of  this  odd  scene. 

The  change  had  come  so  abruptly.  A  few  minutes 
ago  she  had  been  still  a  prisoner,  suffering  tortures  at 
having  heard  that  Marius  was  to  return  that  day,  and 
that,  willy-nilly,  she  must  wed  him  now.  And  now  she 
was  free  it  seemed:  her  champion  was  returned  in 
power,  and  he  stood  bidding  her  decide  the  fate  of  her 
late  oppressors. 

Madame's  face  was  ashen.  She  judged  the  girl  by 
her  own  self;  she  had  no  knowledge  of  any  such  infinite 
sweetness  as  that  of  this  child's  nature,  a  sweetness 
that  could  do  no  hurt  to  any.  Death  was  what  the 
Marquise  expected,  since  she  knew  that  death  would 
she  herself  have  pronounced  had  the  positions  been 
reversed.  But  — 

"Let  her  go  in  peace,  monsieur,"  she  heard  made- 
moiselle say,  and  she  could  not  believe  but  that  she 
was  being  mocked.  And  as  if  mockery  were  at  issue, 
Garnache  laughed. 

"We  will  let  her  go,  mademoiselle  —  yet  not  quite 
her  own  way.  You  must  not  longer  remain  unrestrained, 
madame,"  he  told  the  Marquise.  "Natures  such  as 
yours  need  a  man's  guidance.  I  think  you  will  be 
sufficiently  punished  if  you  wed  this  rash  Monsieur  de 
Tressan,  just  as  he  will  be  sufficiently  punished  later 
when  disillusionment  follows  his  present  youthful 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  GARNACHE  323 

ardour.  Make  each  other  happy,  then,"  and  he  waved 
his  arms  from  one  to  the  other.  "Our  good  Father, 
here,  will  tie  the  knot  at  once,  and  then,  my  Lord 
Seneschal,  you  may  bear  home  your  bride.  Her  son 
shall  follow  you." 

But  the  Marquise  blazed  out  now.  She  stamped  her 
foot,  and  her  eyes  seemed  to  have  taken  fire. 

"Never,  sir!  Never  in  life !"  she  cried.  "I  will  not 
be  so  constrained.  I  am  the  Marquise  de  Condillac, 
monsieur.  Do  not  forget  it!" 

"  I  am  hardly  in  danger  of  doing  that.  It  is  because 
I  remember  it  that  I  urge  you  to  change  your  estate 
with  all  dispatch,  and  cease  to  be  the  Marquise  de 
Condillac.  That  same  Marquise  has  a  heavy  score 
against  her.  Let  her  evade  payment  by  this  meta- 
morphosis. I  have  opened  for  you,  madame,  a  door 
through  which  you  may  escape." 

"You  are  insolent,"  she  told  him.  "By  God,  sir! 
I  am  no  baggage  to  be  disposed  of  by  the  will  of  any 
man." 

At  that  Garnache  himself  took  fire.  Her  anger 
proved  as  the  steel  smiting  the  flint  of  his  own  nature, 
and  one  of  his  fierce  bursts  of  blazing  passion  whirled 
about  her  head. 

"And  what  of  this  child,  here?"  he  thundered. 
"What  of  her,  madame?  was  she  a  baggage  to  be  dis- 
posed of  by  the  will  of  any  man  or  woman?  Yet  you 
sought  to  dispose  of  her  against  her  heart,  against  her 
nature,  against  her  plighted  word.  Enough  said!"  he 
barked,  and  so  terrific  was  his  mien  and  voice  that  the 
stout-spirited  Dowager  was  cowed,  and  recoiled  as  he 
advanced  a  step  in  her  direction.  "Get  you  married. 
Take  you  this  man  to  husband,  you  who  with  such 


SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


calmness  sought  to  drive  others  into  unwilling  wedlock. 
Do  it,  madame,  and  do  it  now,  or  by  the  Heaven 
above  us,  you  shall  come  to  Paris  with  me,  and  you'll 
not  find  them  nice  there.  It  will  avail  you  little  to 
storm  and  shout  at  them  that  you  are  Marquise  de 
Condillac.  As  a.  murderess  and  a  rebel  shall  you  be 
tried,  and  as  both  or  either  it  is  odds  you  will  be 
broken  on  the  wheel  —  and  your  son  with  you.  So 
make  your  choice,  madame." 

He  ceased.  Valerie  had  caught  him  by  the  arm.  At 
once  his  fury  fell  from  him.  He  turned  to  her. 

"What  is  it,  child?" 

"Do  not  compel  her,  if  she  will  not  wed  him,"  said 
she.  "  I  know  —  and  she  did  not  —  how  terrible  a 
thing  it  is." 

"Nay,  patience,  child,"  he  soothed  her,  smiling 
now,  his  smile  as  the  sunshine  that  succeeds  a  thunder- 
storm. 

"It  is  none  so  bad  with  her.  She  is  but  coy.  They 
had  plighted  their  troth  already,  so  it  seems.  Besides, 
I  do  not  compel  her.  She  shall  marry  him  of  her  own 
free  will  —  or  else  go  to  Paris  and  stand  her  trial  and 
the  consequences." 

"They  had  plighted  their  troth,  do  you  say?" 

"Well  —  had  you  not,  Monsieur  le  Seneschal?" 

"We  had,  monsieur,"  said  Tressan,  with  conscious 
pride;  "and  for  myself  I  am  ready  for  these  immediate 
nuptials." 

"Then,  in  God's  name,  let  Madame  give  us  her 
answer  now.  We  have  not  the  day  to  waste." 

She  stood  looking  at  him,  her  toe  tapping  the 
ground,  her  eyes  sullenly  angry.  And  in  the  end, 
half-fainting  in  her  great  disdain,  she  consented  to  do 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  GARNACHE  325 


his  will.  Paris  and  the  wheel  formed  too  horrible  an 
alternative;  besides,  even  if  that  were  spared  her, 
there  was  but  a  hovel  in  Touraine  for  her,  and 
Tressan,for  all  his  fat  ugliness,  was  wealthy. 

So  the  Abbot,  who  had  lent  himself  to  the  mummery 
of  coming  there  to  read  a  burial  service,  made  ready 
now,  by  order  of  the  Queen's  emissary,  to  solemnize  a 
wedding. 

It  was  soon  done.  Fortunio  stood  sponsor  for 
Tressan,  and  Garnache  himself  insisted  upon  handing 
the  Lord  Seneschal  his  bride,  a  stroke  of  irony  which 
hurt  the  proud  lady  of  Condillac  more  than  all  her 
sufferings  of  the  past  half-hour. 

When  it  was  over  and  the  Dowager  Marquise  de 
Condillac  had  been  converted  into  the  Comtesse  de 
Tressan,  Garnache  bade  them  depart  in  peace  and  at 
once. 

"As  I  have  promised,  you  shall  be  spared  all  prose- 
cution, Monsieur  de  Tressan,"  he  assured  the  Sene- 
schal at  parting.  "But  you  must  resign  at  once  the 
King's  Seneschalship  of  Dauphiny,  else  will  you  put 
me  to  the  necessity  of  having  you  deprived  of  your 
office  —  and  that  might  entail  unpleasant  conse- 
quences." 

They  went,  madame  with  bowed  head,  her  stubborn 
pride  broken  at  last  as  the  Abbot  of  Saint  Francis  had 
so  confidently  promised  her.  After  them  went  the 
Abbot  and  the  lackeys  of  Florimond,  and  Fortunio 
went  with  these  to  carry  out  Garnache's  orders  that 
the  men  of  the  Dowager's  garrison  be  sent  packing  at 
once,  leaving  with  the  Parisian,  in  the  great  hall,  just 
Mademoiselle  de  La  Vauvraye. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 


SAINT  MARTIN'S  EVE 

UNEASY  in  his  mind,  seeking  some  way  to  tell 
the  thing  and  acquit  himself  of  the  painful  task 
before  him,  Garnache  took  a  turn  in  the  apartment. 

Mademoiselle  leaned  against  the  table,  which  was 
still  burdened  by  the  empty  coffin,  and  observed  him. 
His  ponderings  were  vain ;  he  could  find  no  way  to  tell 
his  story.  She  had  said  that  she  did  not  exactly  love 
this  Florimond,  that  her  loyalty  to  him  was  no  more 
than  her  loyalty  to  her  father's  wishes.  Nevertheless, 
he  thought,  what  manner  of  hurt  must  not  her  pride 
receive  when  she  learned  that  Florimond  had  brought 
him  home  a  wife?  Garnache  was  full  of  pity  for  her 
and  for  the  loneliness  that  must  be  hers  hereafter, 
mistress  of  a  vast  estate  in  Dauphiny,  alone  and 
friendless.  And  he  was  a  little  sorry  for  himself  and 
the  loneliness  which,  he  felt,  would  be  his  hereafter; 
but  that  was  by  the  way. 

At  last  it  was  she  herself  who  broke  the  silence. 
"Monsieur,"  she  asked  him,  and  her  voice  was 
strained  and  husky,  "were  you  in  time  to  save  Flori- 
mond?" 

"Yes,  mademoiselle,"  he  answered  readily,  glad 
that  by  that  question  she  should  have  introduced  the 
subject.  "  I  was  in  time." 

"And  Marius ? "  she  inquired.  "From  what  I  heard 
you  say,  I  take  it  that  he  has  suffered  no  harm." 

"He  has  suffered  none.  I  have  spared  him  that  he 


SAINT  MARTIN'S  EVE 


might  participate  in  the  joy  of  his  mother  at  her  union 
with  Monsieur  de  Tressan." 

"I  am  glad  it  was  so,  monsieur.  Tell  me  of  it."  Her 
voice  sounded  formal  and  constrained. 

But  either  he  did  not  hear  or  did  not  heed  the 
question. 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  said  slowly.  "Florimond  is 
coming  — " 

"Florimond?"  she  broke  in,  and  her  voice  went 
shrill,  as  if  with  a  sudden  fear,  her  cheeks  turned  white 
as  chalk.  The  thing  that  for  months  she  had  hoped 
and  prayed  for  was  come  at  last,  and  it  struck  her 
almost  dead  with  terror. 

He  remarked  the  change,  and  set  it  down  to  a 
natural  excitement.  He  paused  a  moment.  Then: 

"He  is  still  at  La  Rochette.  But  he  does  no  more 
than  wait  until  he  shall  have  learned  that  his  step- 
mother has  departed  from  Condillac." 

"  But  —  why  —  why  — ?  Was  he  then  in  no  haste 
to  come  to  me?"  she  inquired,  her  voice  faltering. 

"He  is — "  He  stopped  and  tugged  at  his  mus- 
tachios,  his  eyes  regarding  her  sombrely.  He  was  close 
beside  her  now,  where  he  had  halted,  and  he  set  his 
hand  gently  upon  her  shoulder,  looked  down  into  that 
winsome  little  oval  face  she  raised  to  his. 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  inquired,  "would  it  afflict  you 
very  sorely  if  you  were  not  destined,  after  all,  to  wed 
the  Lord  of  Condillac?" 

"Afflict  me?"  she  echoed.  The  very  question  set 
her  gasping  with  hope.  "No  —  no,  monsieur;  it 
would  not  afflict  me." 

"That  is  true?  That  is  really,  really  true?"  he 
cried,  and  his  tone  seemed  less  despondent. 


328  SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


"Don't  you  know  how  true  it  is?"  she  said,  in  such 
accents  and  with  such  a  shy  upward  look  that  some- 
thing seemed  suddenly  to  take  Garnache  by  the  throat. 
The  blood  flew  to  his  cheeks.  He  fancied  an  odd 
meaning  in  those  words  of  hers  —  a  meaning  that  set 
his  pulses  throbbing  faster  than  joy  or  peril  had  ever 
set  them  yet.  Then  he  checked  himself,  and  deep 
down  in  his  soul  he  seemed  to  hear  a  peal  of  mocking 
laughter  —  just  such  a  burst  of  sardonic  mirth  as  had 
broken  from  his  lips  two  nights  ago  when  on  his  way 
to  Voiron.  Then  he  went  back  to  the  business  he  had 
in  hand. 

"I  am  glad  it  is  so  with  you,"  he  said  quietly.  "Be- 
cause —  because  Florimond  has  brought  him  home  a 
wife." 

The  words  were  out,  and  he  stood  back  as  stands  a 
man  who,  having  cast  an  insult,  prepares  to  ward  the 
blow  he  expects  in  answer.  He  had  looked  for  a  storm, 
a  wild,  frantic  outburst;  the  lightning  of  flashing, 
angry  eyes;  the  thunder  of  outraged  pride.  Instead, 
here  was  a  gentle  calm,  a  wan  smile  overspreading  her 
sweet,  pale  face,  and  then  she  hid  that  face  in  her 
hands,  buried  face  and  hands  upon  his  shoulder  and 
fell  to  weeping  very  quietly. 

This,  he  thought,  was  almost  worse  than  the  tem- 
pest he  had  looked  for.  How  was  he  to  know  that 
these  tears  were  the  overflow  of  a  heart  that  was  on 
the  point  of  bursting  from  sheer  joy?  He  patted  her 
shoulder;  he  soothed  her. 

"  Little  child,"  he  whispered  in  her  ear.  "  What  does 
it  matter?  You  did  not  really  love  him.  He  was  all 
unworthy  of  you.  Do  not  grieve,  child.  So,  so,  that 
is  better." 


SAINT  MARTIN'S  EVE  329 


She  was  looking  up  at  him,  smiling  through  the 
tears  that  suffused  her  eyes. 

"I  am  weeping  for  joy,  monsieur,"  said  she. 

"  For  you  ? "  quoth  he.  "  Vertudieul  There  is  no  end 
to  the  things  a  woman  weeps  for!" 

Unconsciously,  instinctively  almost,  she  nestled 
closer  to  him,  and  again  his  pulses  throbbed,  again 
that  flush  came  to  overspread  his  lean  countenance. 
Very  softly  he  whispered  in  her  ear: 

"Will  you  go  to  Paris  with  me,  mademoiselle?" 

He  meant  by  that  question  no  more  than  to  ask 
whether,  now  that  here  in  Dauphiny  she  would  be 
friendless  and  alone,  it  were  not  better  for  her  to 
place  herself  under  the  care  of  the  Queen-Regent.  But 
what  blame  to  her  if  she  misunderstood  the  question, 
if  she  read  in  it  the  very  words  her  heart  was  longing 
to  hear  from  him?  The  very  gentleness  of  his  tone 
implied  his  meaning  to  be  the  one  she  desired.  She 
raised  her  hazel  eyes  again  to  his,  she  nestled  closer 
to  him,  and  then,  with  a  shy  fluttering  of  her  lids,  a 
delicious  red  suffusing  her  virgin  cheek,  she  answered 
very  softly: 

"I  will  go  anywhere  with  you,  monsieur  —  any- 
where." 

With  a  cry  he  broke  from  her.  There  was  no  fancy- 
ing now;  no  possibility  of  misunderstanding.  He  saw 
how  she  had  misread  his  question,  how  she  had 
delivered  herself  up  to  him  in  answer.  His  almost 
roughness  startled  her,  and  she  stared  at  him  as  he 
stamped  down  the  apartment  and  back  to  where  she 
stood,  seeking  in  vain  to  master  the  turbulence  of  his 
feelings.  He  stood  still  again.  He  took  her  by  the 
shoulders  and  held  her  at  arms'  length,  before  him, 


SAINT  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 


thus  surveying  her,  and  there  was  trouble  in  his  keen 
eyes. 

" Mademoiselle,  mademoiselle ! "  he  cried.  "Valerie, 
my  child,  what  are  you  saying  to  me?" 

"What  would  you  have  me  say?"  she  asked,  her 
eyes  upon  the  floor.  "Was  I  too  forward?  It  seemed 
to  me  there  could  not  be  question  of  such  a  thing 
between  us  now.  I  belong  to  you.  What  man  has  ever 
served  a  woman  as  you  have  served  me  ?  What  better 
friend,  what  nobler  lover  did  ever  woman  have  ?  Why 
then  need  I  take  shame  at  confessing  my  devotion?" 

He  swallowed  hard,  and  there  was  a  mist  before  his 
eyes  —  eyes  that  had  looked  unmoved  on  many  a 
scene  of  carnage. 

"You  know  not  what  you  do,"  he  cried  out,  and  his 
voice  was  as  the  voice  of  one  in  pain.  "I  am  old." 

"Old?"  she  echoed  in  deep  surprise,  and  she  looked 
up  at  him,  as  if  she  sought  evidence  of  what  he  stated. 

"Aye,  old,"  he  assured  her  bitterly.  "Look  at  the 
grey  in  my  hair,  the  wrinkles  in  my  face.  I  am  no  likely 
lover  for  you,  child.  You'll  need  a  lusty,  comely  young 
gallant." 

She  looked  at  him,  and  a  faint  smile  flickered  at  the 
corners  of  her  lips.  She  observed  his  straight,  hand- 
some figure;  his  fine  air  of  dignity  and  of  strength. 
Every  inch  a  man  was  he;  never  lived  there  one  who 
was  more  a  man;  and  what  more  than  such  a  man 
could  any  maid  desire? 

"You  are  all  that  I  would  have  you,"  she  answered 
him,  and  in  his  mind  he  almost  cursed  her  stubborn- 
ness, her  want  of  reason. 

"I  am  peevish  and  cross-grained,"  he  informed  her, 
"  and  I  have  grown  old  in  ignorance  of  woman's  ways. 


SAINT  MARTIN'S  EVE  331 


Love  has  never  come  to  me  until  now.  What  manner 
of  lover,  think  you,  can  I  make?" 

Her  eyes  were  on  the  windows  at  his  back.  The 
sunshine  striking  through  them  seemed  to  give  her  the 
reply  she  sought. 

"To-morrow  will  be  Saint  Martin's  Day,"  she  told 
him;  "yet  see  with  a  warmth  the  sun  is  shining." 

"A  poor,  make-believe  Saint  Martin's  Summer," 
said  he.  "I  am  fitly  answered  by  your  allegory." 

"Oh,  not  make-believe,  not  make-believe,"  she 
exclaimed.  "There  is  no  make-believe  in  the  sun's 
brightness  and  its  warmth.  We  see  it  and  we  feel  it, 
and  we  are  none  the  less  glad  of  it  because  the  time 
of  year  should  be  November;  rather  do  we  take  the 
greater  joy  in  it.  And  it  is  not  yet  November  in  your 
life,  not  yet  by  many  months." 

"What  you  say  is  apt,  perhaps,"  said  he,  "  and  may 
seem  more  apt  than  it  is  since  my  name  is  Martin, 
though  I  am  no  saint."  Then  he  shook  off  this  mood 
that  he  accounted  selfish;  this  mood  that  would  take 
her  —  as  the  wolf  takes  the  lamb  —  with  no  thought 
but  for  his  own  hunger. 

"No,  no!"  he  cried  out.  "It  were  unworthy  in  me!" 

"When  I  love  you,  Martin?"  she  asked  him  gently. 

A  moment  he  stared  at  her,  as  if  through  those  clear 
eyes  he  would  penetrate  to  the  very  depths  of  her 
maiden  soul.  Then  he  sank  on  to  his  knees  before  her 
as  any  stripling  lover  might  have  done,  and  kissed  her 
hands  in  token  of  the  fact  that  he  was  conquered. 


THE  END 


<$UIBRARY&  ^UIBRARYQr 


1  inr 


\WEUNIVER%  ^lOSANGElfj> 


%OJI 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


lis 

< ,— 


^vUlBR 


NO  PHONE  RENEWALS 

SfcCD  LD-URt 

MAK  141987 


NOV  02 

sep  idm 

FEB  0  »  2007 


AWEUNIVER% 


15 


.^lOS-ANGElfr*  <AUIBRARY& 


oAt-LlBRARYfl, 


WFOfy^  ^OFCMIFO/?^ 


3  1158  01082  1808 

■%3ain(V3WVs  %ojiiv3j< 


\WE  UNIVERSE 


ft*! 


-n  o 

I  1 


aan-#   "%«vaan-#     ^tosov^  "^/saaAiNn-itt^ 


IIV£R%  ^lOS-ANGELfju 


NV-SOV^  "^/MAINfl^ 
UVER%  ^lOSANGElfj^ 


^J/OJIIVD-JO^ 


^■LIBRARY^ 

%o7irv3jo^ 


^Aavaain^ 


IRARYQ^  ^UIBRARY^c 


fell 


AUFO%,  ^OKALIF(%, 


AME-«NIVERJ//i 


^lOSANCElfjVj. 


in*! 


CP  _ 

"^/mainm^ 


^EUNIVER%  ^lOSANGElfr- 


/aaiH^    %uivaartt^     %133nysoi^  %euNfl-3$ 


NIVERS/a       vvlOSANCElfj-        ^UIBRARYQ^     -o&LIBRARY^  ^WEUNIVER 


